Of wounds and bandages!

 There are wounds that get healed. And others that do not. Bandages mask them all.

I wish I knew what kind of wound you were.

The bandage that covers you up in fine threads longs to know too.

At times you stain it deep red with all the passion and fury boiling in my blood. At times you cause so much pain that I want to tear the bandage off, and detach from the part of me that houses you. 

At times you are silent, a world unto yourself, and I long to touch you, to check if you are still there, engraved into my skin like the vein that sucks away bad blood from you, like the artery that fuels you with freshness and magic and repair and healing. At such times the bandage is a companionable presence, not a maniacal threat.

But most of the times, you are a dichotomy.

Sometimes, when I peel off the layers that cover the scars, when it is time to change bandages, when the pain has gone but the numbness remains, I wonder. I wonder and question and seek to know who you are.

And it is then that I realize that you might not be the wound at all.

It is then, that I realize that you are the bandage. I realize I will never need to change you, because you are the life force that cures it all. You are my bandage that keeps me together J