I peeled it slowly

I peeled it slowly,

watching the adhesive let go in thin strips,

the way it released from my skin

like it was reluctant.

Underneath was a perfect outline—

the shape of the wound, the shape of protection,

my skin paler there, almost foreign,

like a different version of myself

had been living underneath the bandage

this whole time.

I pressed my fingertip against the marked skin,

and it was tender,

sensitive to the touch in a way

the rest of me wasn't.

The adhesive left a faint stickiness,

a residue of the glue,

the reminder that something had been holding me

in place.

When I removed it completely,

the air hit the wound,

and it felt dangerous,

like the bandage was the only thing

keeping it from reopening.

I stood there looking at my skin—

marked by the protection,

marked by what had covered it,

and I understood that healing

leaves evidence,

that the places we're most careful about

are the places that show

we needed care.

My finger traced the outline

where the adhesive had been,

and I could still feel the stickiness,

still feel the impression of something

that had been holding me together

by holding me down.