It was like puling off a bandaid.
Slow and painful at first, but as soon as you grab the edges, tug on it a bit and feel that its not that bad... you rip the whole thing off.
he grabbed my edges, tugged on it to see my reaction and as soon as we both felt it wasn't that bad... he let it rip.
I grabbed on his arm when he pulled the bandaid too hard
but the pain filled me.
It filled me with lines of ' this is it' , 'this is what you asked for', 'you're finally the last one' and the biggest one...'its gonna be him'.
And once the bandaid was ripped off, questions filled me of
'what happens now'
'what do we do now?' and
'Do we do this again?'.
But I don't have answers to these questions, nor do I have guts to ask him.
I never thought id be considering taking my bandaid off,
nevertheless asking him to do it.
But now the bandaid is off, and the scar there for everyone to see.
but I don't see a scar.
I see him.
I just don't know if when he looks at his bandaid, he see me.
