bandaids come in all shapes and sizes
each perfectly tailored to conceal a wound
situated over broken flesh
and sealed at the corners
each bearing a story
and i must sit on my hands
and remember, "don't touch."
"you. must. not. touch."
the temptation begs distraction
there were the same warning signs
and the subtleties between the lines
the ones that only i knew
almost like you saved them, just for me
and, for a moment,
there was you
in raw form
and all i could think was,
"i should have known you then."
the feel of adhesive on my skin
and the taste of resolve between my teeth
are the strongest sensations i have
and, tucked inside the details,
a growing confidence
that one day, my hands won't be tied
and you will be just a scar
that i can run my thumbs over
"this doesn't hurt me anymore."