Objects have flesh memories

There is a story behind every object,

every possession you laid your hands on,

every object that you have contains a memory

from you, of you, with you.

A brush of the fingers,

a touch of your hand,

a look from the eyes,

and a rush of nostalgia spilling form the jar

of forgotten memories and blissful thoughts.

A broken gundam camouflaged among the earthen jars

displayed for when some visitors will come,

to make the house more presentable,

for a high-pitched, "oh you're house is lovely!".

And like how a remembrall's clearness

turns into a mist of red to remind of something you've forgotten,

a scream of defiance,

a wailing of agony,

a plea of forgiveness,

escapes from the shells of that broken gundam toy.

A slap across the face,

a kick on your back,

a headbutt and a punch,

tangled hair from when you pulled them,

and traces of tears on your cheeks,

a blotch of redness of stinging skin

from the pinches you received.

and the regretful words of a younger version of you,

"I only wanted to play today."

But in this house, you can't play,

in this house, you are not supposed

to touch anything out of place.

In this street, you are not allowed

to make friends and playmates,

in this street, you are not allowed to leave.

All because you look different,

all because you are special,

all because no one wants to be friends

and play with someone who needs special attention and care,

all because, in this street,

no on cares to give your special needs,

all because, in this street,

no on wants to be with someone who is extra unique.

There is a story behind every object,

every possession that you have contains

a memory from you,

with you,

of you.

Nostalgia seeps in through your skin and climbs into your head,

until you hear a scream....

of pain,

of agony,

of someone who only wants to feel accepted and appreciated.

She only wanted to play.