I have been thinking about bandaids;
I have been thinking of the ways we use them
to cover up; wounds, secrets, hopes deferred.
I have been wondering why we let the heartbeats
fester, in the dark, underneath our chosen flimsical coverings.
I can poorly choose, but this will not help the ache;
it will, instead, keep it stagnant, pulsating
against the soul's pane, shuddering with
the anticipation of being released. But then I wonder:
this pain, when it is free where will it go? And who
will see it? These uncertainties can only be kept at bay
by bandaids. And this, I suppose, is why we use them.