scratching has a
memory from when
it was a wound-
fresh, mushy.
Waltzing with pain
and misery.
the vulnerability,
abandonment, and
other perks that
came free with the
suffering.
It spoke in a language
that I once spoke.
It smelled like the air
I once inhaled.
It had a microcosm
of its own- a brain,
a heart, and a nervous
system that spread
like a fungal infection
with intentions.
But now, it's dead.
It feels numb, like it has
been left with no purpose.
It recapitulates like
an old man now.
It's almost nostalgic.
I'm tempted to scratch
deeper-
It's tempting to be
a victim again.
It's a sin to dig old
graves, they say.
But the necrophilic
tendencies of mine
do it anyway.