Band-Aid

What I want is a cure

Not a treatment

But a cure.

I want my wounds to heal and fill in with scar tissue

I'm tired of drunkenly slapping on Band-Aids on Saturday Night

Happily finding them still there and smiling at me on Sunday Morning

Only to have them peel off and be lost somewhere by Monday

When you stop sending me the cute texts and instead of being grateful for what I tasted over the weekend, I feel like I should apologize for having tasted at all.

And then I go through the week with this open sore

One that I don't look at with pride, but rather, hide with shame.

Hoping I can slap on another band-aid over the weekend…and maybe…just maybe…this time it'll heal.

But the cracks don't stop weeping, and sometimes if I rub it too hard, it bleeds just a little bit.

But it never leaves a scar. A scar implies a lesson learned, some pain remedied, some damage since repaired.

But never forgotten. And while it seems I can't do anything but remember you…You've clearly forgotten about me.

And so, my disease leaves no scars. No signs of anything wrong.

Except that little lesion I try to cover up every weekend with a band-aid.

If I'm lucky, it'll be the same one I used before, but maybe this time it'll stick on a little easier.

But it seems that each time I try to reapply, it just falls off easier.

And I don't know if it's love that I need or if it's love that ails me.

But I do know I need a new prescription.

Because sex is a shitty painkiller.