The Itch of Time

The skin around my scar begins to itch,

a reminder of battles I thought I forgot,

where healing felt sweet, then turned into a twitch,

whispers of pain that life never sought.

I scratch at the surface, caught in a spell,

a strange little pleasure that dances on scars,

a nostalgia for hurt that once felt like hell,

now twinges like laughter beneath the old stars.

It’s strange how the past clings tight like a vine,

as if every itch tells a story anew,

a mark of survival, a testament divine,

that healing can tickle and haunt me, too.