"bandaids" poems
I'm not just a flirt.
When I think about you.
It doesn't just hurt.
Because you're leaving so soon.
Scared and unsure what the void will do.
Bandaids don't fix this type of wound.
I'm not just a flirt.
I've got deep feelings of compassion.
More humble than dirt.
Empathy that drowns me suddenly.
I'll be your rock in this river stream.
I'll never be too far.
Living more than a dream.
I'm not a flirt.
Drafts no one will ever see.
Passion I'll never quell.
Living with regrets.
Now that is true hell.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
You like to say love disappeared.
And I swear it never left, but she talk like Kanye "Ima let you finish"
shrug her shoulders; cut me off, Swift.
Drinks on the table it was no one else's business, Henny in my system there was no one else who witnessed how she never took a breath like a run on sentence so I'm in the club flexing working on my fitness; arms out stretched on my chest crucifixion.
I'm forgiven but could never get a word in not even one syllable I'm talking in synonyms I,
never
ever
nevermore, words with friends. Triple word how absurd you be trippin **** on my Instagram insecurity I'm tired of it I'm with my Boys chillin rarely smoked but might burn a spliff; ease the pain so insane major Payne fatigue is in.
I got a glimpse of future, I use to, try to hit you up reconnect, bluetooth, I'm in her ear lying for the *** I miss you, she on top giving me the truth: this all you. But **** it though I'm not trynna be your man, but when she leaving out for work I be sleepin in
and when she home I tax that *** like I'm Uncle Sam nothing ever change so after head she be at my neck
next
Flashback to the present
--and--
she still telling me how I don't get it
stressed
unproductive in her presence, you not even in front of me I'm still tasting lemons; Yo, my star player wants a trade should I let her go? cut too deep for bandaids should I let it flow.
Throwback to the past vampire clothes but the blood different I'm a sucker for that red though: she was floating 6 inches from the earth floor, you's a victim baby true blood, spoil us! Show Me What You Got lil mama let your "Kingdom Come" dressed in all black spending money black republican? Awesome and some; I was sliding home she was catching, clamping; say I turn her on like a touch screen, Samsung; with a touch of color you would disobey your mother as I slid under your covers
mid-day massages
"Midnight Maunders"
at least that's how it use to be, now Award Tour got her trippin almost frequently
we use to fight for love she said now she a causality!
"and how you gonna make this bout you it's about me, phone ringing since 1am it's about 3
thought you was slick huh,
thought I was sleep, you **** right love disappeared"
but she never leaves.
She's still waiting to exhale, but she never breaths.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Aluminum
Have you memorized your storybooks
How does it feel to catch on fire
You go where bugs go in the winter
Surface waves
How does it feel to be momentary
An oven timer
Or a sparkler
Sidewalk
How does it feel to be cracked open
To bleed to death
Blunt force trauma for 200
Rooftop
How's the autumn
The air's quite nice
But the ending is blurry
Oh winter
How does it feel to melt
To simply
Stop existing
Open ocean
How does it feel to drown
I thought there were bandaids
And you never even saw me
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
You came into the bathroom
And took the blade from my hands
You left me in shock
And returned with the
Mickey Mouse band aids
And a box of tissues.
You turned on the faucet
And as the water turned red
You just stared at me
You bandaged me up
And you stared again
Until I started telling you
The whole story
And when I was done
You just stared
And then you did something extraordinary.
You started to cry.
-CsR
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
septemeber 2014 i told my dad i didnt want to be alive anymore
in our kitchen, we sat on the floor, he held me and through his tears he told me he never wants to lose me
i think about this all the time
october 2014 my 2 year old brother saw my cuts and scars
he brings me bandaids all the time
novemeber 2014 my mom walked in on my 6th suicide attempt
we stayed up all night driving around, talking about how much i wanted to end my life
she asks me every day how i'm feeling now
december 2014 my step dad found sleeping pills i had been purchasing and saving for 6 weeks
he didnt cry when his only son was born but he couldnt even breathe when he found my pills and confronted me about it
janurary 2015 my step mom drove my to the er when she found my almost dead in the shower
she didnt sleep for 3 days while she and my mom stayed at the hospital with me
feburary 2015 my mom found my journal of suicide notes
there was over 100 notes
march 2015 my grandparents began noticing how bad i was getting
my grandmother stayed at our house during march break with me
april 2015 i saw my favourite band who has helped me through a lot of tough times
i got their lyrics on my body forever to remind me that i'm not my illness
may 2015 my bestfriend and i made a promise to each other to remain self harm free
we promised to help eachother get through our illnesses
june 2015 she was in the hospital for trying to **** herself
i knew i had to stay strong for the both of us
july 2015 i started to work on myself
i started to notice the beauty in things again
i forgot how much i loved the rain
how much i loved flowers
how much i cared about nature and the planet
i forgot how much i loved life
august 2015 i started to plan for the future
i started thinking about 10 years down the road
september 2015 i'm not where i want to be yet, but im so proud of how far i've come
im proud of myself
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
You broke me.
Why can't you fix me?
Did the pieces cut your feet?
Did the porcelain make you bleed?
I know. It hurts, right?
The sting left inside at night?
And bandaids don't heal it,
they just made you cry,
Because you can't really fix it,
and you can't really fight.
And I understand the absence,
the advancements in my head,
A unique side to seeing,
a life trembling in death.
As I am standing,
to prove I'm awake,
How much more pain,
am I able to take?
None.
That's what you can't see;
the more I am feeling,
The less I am free-
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
You try to flutter and realize you’re broken
From what you’ve gone through, the unspoken
Vivid, scary dreams seem like old memories
And you don’t know what truth to follow
Little fairy don’t you know you can’t get far
On hopes and dreams and wishing on a star
Your tattered wings can’t handle those things
Oh, little fairy stop daring the world to be uncaring
Little fairy know who is riding beside as you get by
You’d be surprised who isn’t on your side
Dressed in blue like your mood, it suits you
Damaged and swearing never, ever again
Will you go out of your way like you used to
Knowing not one soul is there in the end
Little fairy don’t you know you can’t get far
On hopes and dreams and wishing on a star
Your tattered wings can’t handle those things
Oh, little fairy stop daring the world to be uncaring
Little fairy know who is riding beside as you get by
You’d be surprised who isn’t on your side
Bandaids can’t keep it all in anymore
Shout it out, they say the truth will set you free
Little fairy don’t you know you can’t get far
On hopes and dreams and wishing on a star
Your tattered wings can’t handle those things
Oh, little fairy stop daring the world to be uncaring
Little fairy know who is Riding beside as you get by
You’d be surprised who isn’t on your side
Jan 10, 2020
Jan 10, 2020 at 2:26 AM UTC
I call you an *****
An ***** player,
Player of hearts and eyes alike
Your fingers pressed to the porcelain
as if the weather depends on
whether or not the pipes pipe up
as if a heart does not beat without
your hands repairing the metal indents
An ***** donor,
Donor of drunken livers and stomachs full of barbed wire fencing
Your lips pointed upward once awakened from dissection
as if you could lacerate a human being from the inside
and go on being
as if keeping them in liquor-filled mason jars
will cradle their fear
An ***** system,
Without a skeleton or bandaids to piece yourself together
You bleed out and ignite a single flame
as if you could burn a house down
with all your leaving
as if you could survive a life spineless
not living but breathing
DDD
(11/10/2013)
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
Let me get to know you inside and out; let me get to know your biggest fear and what type of soup you like, tell me more about how you like smoking at two am to clear your head, let me get inside your brain and not just your mouth
Speak to me more than just in body language, tell me stories of your childhood you never dared to repeat, relive the best memories with me in places so void of aging we're convinced we're timeless
Get to know my scars inside and out and let me keep my bandaids for as long as I need, kiss my bruises and tell me that getting up is a process and you'll be trying too, convince me that nails are meant to be broken and laughter is meant to sound hoarse because everything in life is messy and that's the beauty of it
Please, let me know that we're okay - speak louder than their words and look me in the eyes, don't tell me lies coated in beautiful letters, tell me truths so raw it'll burn your tongue and pierce my ears; tell me that we were meant to burn but burning alive never scared you, take my hand and lead me into a forest so dense I won't be able to find my way back and hide the flashlight, let my instincts guide me to you and for the love of god don't let go of my hand when I run back to you
Convince me I'm whole and let me show you you're broken, kiss me goodbye and let me teach you why hello is my favourite word, entangle me in kisses and let me be your oxygen when you're left breathless;
help me believe in 11:11 again
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
It wasn't a
bad
downhill
ride
The seats were leather
the music
was loud
I wasn't afraid
to
fall
the ground always
catches
me
and the Batman bandaids
make me look
hip.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Look,
one day,
it’s all
going to happen
to you.
You’ll wake up one morning
and skin your knee
for the
very first time.
You’ll jump
into your best friend’s
pool
in the middle
of winter
just to feel the
cold.
You’ll fall asleep
drunk
in someone’s
backyard
on cheap *****
that sticks
to your fingers
like pancake syrup,
and burns
like the hell
you’ll feel
the first time
you realize
he doesn’t love you
back.
Your life
will be full
of
laughter
and
heartache
and
temper tantrums
from not getting your way
at 5
and age 25.
But baby girl,
if you’re lucky,
and since you’re
your mother’s daughter,
you will be,
your life will be bursting
at the seams
with all the stars
shores
and peanut butter cups
your little body
can hold.
Maybe you’ll
grow up
and save
the world.
Maybe
you’ll slam
your car door
when you leave
and break my
heart.
Or maybe you’ll be
like me,
awake at all hours
writing down words
for someone
who doesn’t yet
exist.
But no matter
which path
you choose,
know that
I’ll always
be at the end of it
waiting for you
with sweets
and bandaids
in hand.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 1:12 AM UTC
I am the bobby pins and hair clips you find in corners of your room, on your dresser, or behind your bed.
I am the pictures on your wall that I made when I was once manic.
I am the crumbs you find in your bed that was once my “three or four nights a week bed” which I used as a table.
I am the cafe where we met, and kept meeting.
I am day drives to no where.
I am the Middletown train station before the movies.
I am the mint lotion that keeps the bugs away.
I am the notes I would leave you, that found their way on your wall.
I am the bandaids.
I am that strand of medium length brown hair you will find in your shower
I am that guy, from trivia at that other cafe, that I wanted us to be friends with.
I am the hands that would unlock your locked pointer finger.
I am that key on your key chain.
I am the leftover tea that is always too hot for me to drink, and is left near your bed.
I am ice cream with CHERRIES, and edamame.
I am the sheets on your bed.
I am the downing film theater when you needed to feel better.
I am New Jersey.
I am the reason Netflix recommends Independent dramas with strong female lead. I am the netflix.
I am the stain on your mattress.
I am the drool on your pillow.
I am the sugar in your cabinet above your roomates whiskey.
I am all of the groceries and dates I paid for.
I am all those pictures of me on your phone which made their way to your computer.
I am the light wash boyfriend jeans.
I am that bottle of wine that sits with all other bottles, that you see when you walk out of your room and into the kitchen, and out the door.
I am the reason you once felt content.
I am the reason the corkscrew sits on that stool.
I am the reason why your toothbrush is wet, before you use it.
I am the two red sharpie marks left on those sheets that I got us.
I am mexico. The trip to mexico that could have almost seemed doable.
I am the sent of oils which remind you of hippies.
I am the shoes left at your door, or the teavana jug of tea in the kitchen right now.
I am the fourth of July. I am that pool we never swim in. I am the projected films on the fence.
I am the talker, the thought keeper, the fighter, the writer.
I am Sensual Amber
I am UBE
I am my legs on the wall when I dry them.
I am the tiny pills on your dresser.
I am just someone your next girlfriend will be better than.
I am the bobby pins.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
The winter is brisk, but not half as cold as you've become.
How can you say you loved me once?
When I look into those eyes that once seemed so warm,
I only see shadows where your soul used to be.
The winter is brisk, and you're a shell of yourself.
When did you change?
It must have been all the words the doctor used to describe you.
Crazy, depressed, nervosa-syndrome-disorder
There's bandaids where I used to see your beauty.
The winter is brisk, and you're in my head but I'm not in yours.
Why didn't you come back?
The therapist convinced you our love was poison.
But it was the only thing keeping you human.
I can't shake you back to life this time.
Snowglobe darling,
I'll watch your snowflakes fall,
and listen to what's left of your sweet melody.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
Sitting, restless
In this changeling
Sensation
Of freshness and renewal.
Running
Rat on a wheel.
Each passing day
A different way
Of feeling,
An altered state of mind.
Seeking
To find
A man within the boy.
Hoping to see
The real me.
Alive and kicking.
Hot flushed, this post determined puberty
And the desperate need to feel.
An urgent angst to Be.
Short fuse and temper flare.
I’m not really there
Yet still somehow
Everywhere and
Everything;
Else breathing.
Dysmorphic chest
Heaving
Exigency
In this
Juncture
Soul puncture,
And bloodied bandaids
Cast off
My heart
Once worn on my sleeve.
I am finger skin,
Flesh and nail
Torn
And jagged edges
Peeling.
Perplexity kneeling,
I am deeply lost inside of me.
Begging to be found.
Compund; unbound.
They say that beggars can’t be choosers
Only losers left to dreaming.
They also say
That I may be a dreamer
But I’m not the only one.
I will come undone in this undoing.
Eschewing
A life lived unalive.
Slow unravel
To once again
Begin
To belong in this
Skin
Stitched bleeding riches
To my bare and brittle bone
He is not alone
I feel him
Running
Waiting
Sating disquietude
With an attitude
Unshackled
He is not running
Rather feet flying
A rat inside
A wheel.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 10:47 PM UTC
Let your lips
graze my skin,
leaving no
exposed patch
untouched.
Pepper my
broken pieces
with your perfect
bandaids and
mend the scars
I swear would
never leave.
I am utterly
convinced
you are the
antidote I
thought
I'd never
find.
-JRM
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
How many tears does is take to make a river?
It takes a lifetime of depression and desperation for someone to give a ****
It takes a broken home and broken hearts and broken spirits.
It takes a teenager years to get over their parents divorce.
A manmade canyon in the ground of the tears of broken kids and
Despair.
How much blood does it take to start a forest fire?
It takes blades upon blades being dragged against pale skin.
It takes the bandaids used to patch the severed hearts from bleeding.
It takes the whites of eyes turning to red from the cries of help but all you get is ignored.
It takes pain.
Irritation.
Anger.
How much skin does it take to cover a desert?
It takes the skins of buried kids who have laid to rest under 6 feet of soil.
It takes the skins you were born with and cut off because you don’t like the way it looks.
Cell on cell of skin. Every grain of sand in the desert is different like the swirls on our fingertips.
How much breath does it take to start a breeze?
You huff, and puff, and blow this place down but the only thing thats crumbling is your hopes and dreams.
Mother nature doesn’t comfort us at all.
She created the elements of life and death and sadness.
Just in disguise from our own minds.
A trick.
We fell for it.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
I have applied pressure to the wound
And have bandaged it quite firmly
But nothing stops the bleeding
And nothing stops the ache
My heart broke for you...
But I have no
Bandaids to
Protect
My
Heart.
I hold
It in my
Hands-- blood quickly
Dripping through fingers.
Drops of blood mark my path
Showing just where I have been,
And where I'm headed to. My heartbeat
Stops. It ends, my love, just as you do.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
You see I have this problem:
I want to travel the whole entire world,
But night terrors have left me with bags under my eyes that would just
Cost me a pretty fortune to check.
At the very least, more than my plane ticket,
More likely though, the last bit of sanity I hold within my soul.
I do not carry my illness like a purse
Trust me if I could, I would.
I'd fill it with bandaids and mended memories of the times I was never brave enough
With love and strength and courage.
I'd stick it into a time machine, send it back to a littler me
But, my illness is not a purse. Not something to simply be set down when it becomes too heavy,
It's more like a backpack
Filled with rocks
And duct taped to my abdomen.
Night terrors and ghost pains have consumed my body
Leaving me standing here with what feels like
A fifty pound weight
Holding me down.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Words aren't bandaids
for wounds of the heart
and promises aren't plane rides
against the distance that keeps us apart
Your absence is the loudest sound
I keep its' echoes for when you're not around
You can only send
so many postcards
before words like "love"
become a language so dead
your own tongue has forgotten how to speak it
You can only mend
a heart so many times
before "irreparably damaged"
becomes a definition on its' label
before you start to pretend
that the space between them and you
isn't tearing the two
apart
how can it be
with so many around
I still want you here with me
You cannot build a body
solely from pretty words
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
some are hidden by
baggy, old sweatshirts,
loose gray sweatpants,
long sleeves,
and jeans.
some are hidden by
****** makeup jobs,
bracelets,
and bandaids.
some are hidden by
the dark nights
and cold winters,
by leather jackets
and over-sized sweaters
and leggings
and pajama pants
and high socks.
but some
cannot be
hidden
at
all.
{-m.j.}
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
A crack in the plastic cup
I run my fingers through
A Thumb-full of little cuts
I run my fingers through
worn-out bandaids
Can hardly contain it
Little reddish stains on
The white cotton fabric
For best results,
apply the bandage
to clean, dry, skin
(the cup was full of water)
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 12:45 AM UTC
I pressed my left heel down to get it into the strap of my sparkled sandal--bought from the cheap version of the rich girl store; I got them more than half off.
I'm a fraud.
Sliding my foot into the shoe,
the way I've done so many times before,
I lose my balance.
And there goes the first one.
I knew the nails were coming off;
I'm not all that wealthy.
I have to wait until the last minute to cough up fifteen bucks to get these things re-done.
I thought it just popped the nail straight off,
but it throbs and is begging for me to pay it some attention.
I peer down at where the once perfectly manicured nail (baby blue tips and all) had sat upon my index finger.
It has left a ****** mess--jagged and imperfect.
I can see my real nail drawn up next to my cuticle like a smile.
Placed on top is a half moon of hardened acrylic until it breaks off near the soft doughy point of my freshly exposed fingertip.
Edgy.
Almost.
The blood lines the rim and trickles it's way down
curving its way around the smile;
highlighting the crescent of my own fingernail.
It throbs.
****
I say wanting someone to hear me.
****
a little louder.
I just want to complain lately.
I want a little attention for the suffering I put my own self through.
As I wait it throbs more.
I wipe the blood away just to watch it refill.
I walk down the stairs,
and they take care of me.
They give me my oohs and ahhs and owes,
put some ointment on a paper towel because we don't have bandaids,
wrap it with tape,
and I'm off to sew my dress back together for dinner.
My sister's dress;
my sister's dress that she got from a nearby neighbor
who stuffed it in a trash bag and left it there for us to take.
Maybe I will get a discount.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
/sword
in the way
by the well
it is said
she will rise from the blue
and it is true
...chilly mossy air
petticoats and nighties
little torch
and walloping gumboots
pig tails and
bandaids
the little girl went running
the rust of the bucket
the shadows cast by the hidden moon
a bolt of lightning in a far away tree
scare her a little
but she goes on
..at the well
she points and whispers
and there is the ghost-ish-thing
with its sad sad eyes
it tells the girl of the slashes
and deaths the swords
and the wars
have caused in its time and
it tells the girl
to stop the wars from happening again and again
...the little girl often visits the ghost
she is not frightened as the ghost has never sought to harm her
instead she listens, and learns
the ghost is her teacher
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
Funny how a small success
can make a large struggle
seem worthwhile.
The struggle pushes on your body
like the thousands of pounds of air pressure we endure every moment, adapted since birth when we were exposed to the atmosphere for the first time.
We've adapted so much. It feels like nothing at all.
And such is the struggle, a gradual acceptance,
until one accidental success -
a perfectly carved moment of zen designed to seal one crack in our exterior, to smooth an otherwise rough outline of the idea of your person.
One crack we didn't know was there until we look more closely.
And suddenly - we see - !
Are we made up of billions of cracks,
of shattered thoughts and ideas,
dreams and plans and places and bandaids over the wounds that never really healed?
Are we scarred beneath the flattened affect of the I'mFines and the Don'tWorries?
What a shock, then, when you finally discover the one smooth graft in your otherwise undetectably shattered self.
Oh! The elation!
One small, well-placed celebration
The seed of a new foundation
Can you declare a body unfit for inhabitance?
It's time for total renovation.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
I wouldn't call this poetry
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing beautiful about wanting to die. There is nothing lovely about hurting yourself, nothing symbolic about deaths kiss that I wish would kiss my entire soul.
I wouldn't call this poetry because it isn't.
I think really living is a lot like knowing there's demons lurking inside your head but checking anyways.
I think it's like getting home late and pulling back the shower curtain checking murders
even though all you have to so is pull back your own eyelids and see the very thing that's killing you
I did not sleep last night because I was contemplating ways to die while also telling myself not to do it
I think I'm in a paradox.
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing moving about this.I long for safety like a deaf person longs to hear.
But how can you long for something you've never felt?
I've been applying bandaids to my heart except it's words and the adhesive they provided just doesn't stick in my mind anymore
Everyone wants to knock down my walls but I'm missing the safety the cemented in bricks provide and I promise you
Oh god I promise you
You don't want to come through my walls
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC