I was younger,

and clean surfaces would calm my mind;

always on edge,

always the deer in headlights;

some things just don’t change.

But when the surface couldn’t be cleaned -

I’d cover it up;

concealer over puffy eyes;

if you conceal it, you won’t feel it anymore.

My mother never let me use makeup remover,

it was always washcloths and a ton of water,

and sometimes coconut oil;

she was always there to take away the disposable wipes,

and throw the cloths in the laundry,

forever smudged with inky black;

some things change too quickly.

Then we disagreed, because we could,

I was older, and braver, and dumber,

and I argued with her every chance I got.

I know now that after the makeup’s wiped off,

the tear stains are still there, like ghosts,

they haunt my face, forever etched

because I cried too much as a child.

I always wanted to rip off the Band-Aid,

she always said to leave it on;

I guess she didn’t know how to explain it to a four year old

because I didn’t listen anyway.

I’d wonder, why leave it on

if the cut doesn’t bleed anymore?

What do you protect me from?

She shook her head at me,

took a washcloth, wiped away the dried blood,

and replaced the Band-Aid with a fresh one.

“In case it’s holding things together, silly girl,” she must’ve thought.

When I was ten, and felt rebellious enough,

I ripped it off with vigor and delight.

The cut opened again,

probably because I prodded at it too much,

“Whatever,” I thought.

I got stitches in my foot three years later,

“Whatever” I thought.

Now I curse myself and say every day,

don’t rip it off, leave it on for a while longer,

in case it’s holding things together.