I hate the word nostalgia.
It scratches the back of my throat as I say it.
The memory of a childhood.
Careless, free, happy.
Or at least, for them.
For me, it's a painful look back
To a time where I did nothing but survive
To happy moments
That were filled with silent rage and tears
Is comfort really comfort
If you know it's temporary?
Because,
I don't remember the last time I was carefree
Oblivious, yes. But not carefree.
I didn't know what was happening,
But I knew how I felt.
Unsafe, abandoned, cold and confused.
The pink walls of my childhood bedroom
The princess stickers on the walls
They they see what was going on?
Or did they close their eyes too?