Moth and its light

I'm a moth to a flame. It sickens me so. I know it burns.
 I know it rots.
 And yet,
each and every night,
 I find it. Poking the bruises
 of my mind,
 replaying the moments 
from
 days,
 weeks,
 months
 ago as if memory
 is a wound
 that only stays alive
because I keep
 checking if it still hurts. I tell myself
 I'll stop tomorrow. Tomorrow 
always becomes 
another midnight, and all I seem to do is think.