(An Ode To Bandaids)
You're all I think about
When I have you stuck to my arm hair like a hapless lover
Ripe with the promise of future pain and forgotten beginnings
I hate the way you poison my thoughts
A million of them: ants
And yet
O, I crave the way you cuff my wrists
Some nauseous badge of misplaced pride
You crawl up my skin and
Rip out scabs
I can't thank you enough for all the healing that you undo
With your sticky fingers and cotton tongue
You enslave my mind
For the brief moments of an endless life in which you grace my arms
You make me feel special
Adorned with cheap plaster and diamonds
YOU ARE READING
In Which
PoetryA collection of poems about my experiences battling bipolar disorder, OCD, and addiction.
