What happens underneath

The edge caught

and I lifted slowly,

felt the adhesive caught

in place, wholly

committed to holding

the wound closed.

Then it came, unfolding,

and the skin exposed

was pale, almost white,

a perfect oval

where the wound had been, tight

against the survival

of my own body's

small healing.

It was tender—the irony

of the feeling

was that I didn't know

if it was healed

or just the adhesive's flow

that had sealed

something still broken.

I pressed my finger—

it hurt. The pain woke

something in me, the ringer

of understanding

that what protects

also hides what's standing

underneath. The vexed

nature of recovery

is that the bandage

that kept it covered

leaves you ravaged

when it's removed,

exposed to the air,

to the proof

that you're not fully repaired.