Ah.

The mosquito lands.
You hear it. You feel it. You react.

If you slap it,
that is you.
If you let it drink,
that is you.
If you neither move nor flinch,
still you are there.

The mosquito does not ask,
“Is this right?”
It drinks because it is thirsty.
You swat because you are angry.
Or because you are afraid.
Or because you are alive.

So:
Who is the mosquito?
Who is the blood?
Who is the hand?

Until you know,
let it bite.