Not another sonnet

[Bleumeon]

Mosquito bite on my ankle,
I’m up all night scratching you.
The bleeding starts, but my fingernails keep on raking.
Why can’t the itch just stop?
For a few days, you keep it up.
For a few more, you dry into a scab.
Finally, you’re just a tiny purple scar.
I don’t even have to look at you
if I don’t want to.

I can definitely relate to this poem, but it feels like I'm reading a bunch of statements as opposed to an entire piece. It is more like a story in my opinion