You slip me under your ribs so well that I forget what I am. I am one with your lung and I hold your breath until you are ready to let go.

I am the dagger. You used me to end yourself and now I’m paying the price. Because no one told me daggers can feel pain. And I didn’t tell you you could use me to hurt yourself.

She was a knife point. Bursting from within clean unblemished skin. And nothing would stand in her way.

Then he came along. He pulled down her walls and peeled under her skin. He saw her for what she was.

She was a ruiner. And nothing would stand in her wake.

He was a fixer. And somehow he never left her side.

Neither would ever be the same.

Something about that paper package sealing the healing into the bandaid makes my heart melt.

The simple act of placing a bandaid on a cut or scrape

Shows a level of caring that’s hard to find.

You are showing a readiness to heal and asking for your body’s permission to be fixed.

Scars may be there but the bandages tell your body you love it.

Every body deserves a bandage.

I feel it slightly in my waking hours. It trials me like a cape, making all part for me to pass.

At night, when all eyes are covered, it scratches me. Trying to remember who I am. I awake to small scans lining my legs and arms. I am a patchwork enigma torn between finding a solution and finding a thread and tugging until I rip open.

This will not define me but it just might.

We are already sinking so why not push me under?

I already can’t laugh without losing breath, just take it all away. I’m struggling to exist with you and without you. I feel the deep blue of you infecting my body and leaving me to the waves to beat. All I want is to float but you are so determined to drown me that you don’t see the fire burning in my eyes.