dreadfully nostalgic (not a poem, just writing.)

Why must I inject old photos and forgotten songs into my veins, knowing that, though these memories bring me comfort, they slowly bruise and cripple me. How can simply listening to a familiar voice cause me to claw at my face in discomfort? And when my skin peels and the fleshy red beneath is revealed, will i learn to stay away? Will i learn to stop tying the sweater sleeve, stop pulling and tugging and knotting and tightening? Stop injecting. Stop injecting. Stop branding my skin with the initials of martyrs from past lives, wishing that i could hold a hand that hasn’t touched my skin, grazed my face in years. Whenever i laugh my voice runs deep and the present disappears, and I am brought back. Back to when the saliva would pile and stretch between my teeth, mouth opened wide as it could. With little fingernails digging into my palms and scratching at my shoulders til they bled, i reached out from the blankets for the familiar stars hanging down for me to touch. wise as i was, i never screamed out for your help, for you don’t exist. You are not my mother. My mother’s hair is not grey and her face is not wrinkled and her feet are not busted and bruised as yours are. I am 8 years old and I do not hurt.