One day when I was very little a stranger came up to me.
He was carrying things I remember
thinking were quite odd --
_________________A band aid. Some duct tape.
He kept reaching for me with these long arms.
He placed his bandages upon my fine, girl legs.
And when he was finished, I remember feeling
so silly--
Like everyone around me was watching.
Like underneath my bandages there were actual scars
_________________instead of my young flesh, unharmed.
I walked home that day and I got into bed.
I removed my strange gifts one by one.
But my skin held tightly to the adhesive
of the band aids and the tape.
I had to pull hard to take them off,
and I began to cry
_________________fresh hot tears.
I remember how my body became red.
I learned how to rip off the bandages quickly
with one
great
pull
so as to minimize how much it hurt.
But what I remember most
was wanting to take the stranger's hand
as he reached for me.
To follow him wherever he was going.
Perhaps he would continue to bandage me
until nothing
was left exposed.
So that I would be safe from everybody.
So that I would be safe.
Each night we would dress
the wounds we had created
with our own hands,
assessing and assessing
the damage,
deciding which scar needed extra padding
which would continue to bleed
despite our effort
which would eventually cauterize.
But being back in my room then,
I told myself it was necessary to hurry.
And I lay in bed with my scars
wondering why
I was so lucky.
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