The tick needs no thanks for regurgitating some blood into me.
Nor gratitude that it’s follicle-like legs numb my nerves,
While drinking itself to the point of bursting.
But by nature even it will know when it’s pressed it’s luck,
Mouth wet from blood and dead animal matter.
And drop from my back like an overripe grape.
Ugh, that sucked, I’m too depressed and tired to even write right now.