Whenever They talk about pain,
An affliction,
Something you need to get over;
They talk about band-aids.

They talk about ripping it off,
Quick and easy.
A lick of pain,
But then you’re done.

They tell you,
They insist:

A flash,
The bright white sharpness of tugging skin,
As you yank away a film of protection,
And then it’s over.

Quick and easy.

But They,
The all-knowing They,
The insurmountable They,
They never talk about after the band-aid.

How it tingles, tender,
Where the band-aid had been,
Where it attached itself to you,
The sensory memory of a parasite you relied on.

How the skin is discolored,
If only for a few minutes.
It looks different from the rest of you now,
Pale, sickly.

They don’t tell you how to cope,
With being exposed to the air again,
With baring your wound to the world,
To the peanut gallery of infection.

They tell you to rip off the band-aid,
Quick and easy.
And then,

They leave.

And you’re alone,
With a new wound in need of tending.
Stinging, smarting,
Raw, bleeding.

You put on another band-aid.