The Adhesive Separates

I lift the corner this morning.

The skin underneath is still raw,

still not ready,

but I lift it anyway.

The adhesive makes that sound—

not quite a whisper,

not quite a scream,

something between skin and tape,

the sound of something that was stuck

deciding to let go.

It pulls.

The air hits the wound and it stings,

but that's not the worst part.

The worst part is the memory that comes with it,

the way the body remembers

being peeled away from,

the way it all comes back:

a different hand,

a different kind of pulling,

someone else's impatience,

someone else's need to see

what was underneath.

I had a choice about this Band-Aid.

I chose to put it on.

I can choose when to take it off.

But my hands are shaking anyway.

The adhesive leaves a ghost on my skin,

a pale rectangle of protected flesh

surrounded by the rest of me,

which has been out in the world,

which has had to toughen up.

I put a new Band-Aid on.

The old one goes in the trash,

crumpled,

its job done,

its stickiness spent on trying to hold something together

that keeps wanting to fall apart.

Tomorrow I might be braver.

Today I just need it covered again.