After I've peeled off the wrappers off of the bandaids I stare at the pile of paper blankly knowing that they were a waste. No matter how many bandaids I stick on my skin it will never heal those scars you've imprinted onto my heart and mind. I count 10 bandaids in my mind, not as much as last time, I'm disappointed. Am I getting cowardly? Am I going easier on myself? I scowl and trace the bandaids under the pad of my fingertip. Why am I wasting my bandaids on you? No matter how many bandaids I use you'll never come back. It's not like you'd notice the bags underneath my eyes or the way my eyes have lost their light. It's not like you'll be the one to comfort me or the one who will save me from myself. It's not like the bandaids will heal the scars underneath. Only time will heal them I suppose. I don't feel the usual sadness anymore, there's only a hollowness and emptiness in my body that craves to be filled with love and warmth. 10 stupid bandaids I had wasted for you to cover the millions of scars you left underneath.
