My mother puts on her lipstick.

She hands me the pack of band-aids as she leaves the pharmacy.

“They’ll make you feel better.”

I put on a band-aid and I’m okay.

They’re rubbed on by the doctor and kissed by my mother.

And the next day, it wore off. Typical. I got another band-aid. Rubbed and kissed.

And another.

And another.

Same meaning. Same love.

Less feeling. Less hope.

Two years since the first visit. I’m covered in them. I’m covered in lipstick and worthless stick. They’ll make me feel better.

I’m covered in them. They stick on and wear away.

Stick on, and wear away.