This band aid, sticky and clingy as gum on the bottom of a shoe.
Smooth and even, it sits snugly on the back of my scarred hand.
Glossy and polished, it has the shine of the softly glowing ivory moon in the matte, velvety night sky.
On its sticky underside, laid unerringly in the core, is a soft pad, woven by delicate strands of fiber and cotton.
It comforts me, this patch of safety—and I gently pat it closer to my open wounds.
Now, it is a guardian, secure and impenetrable, cozily cushioning my cuts away from disruptions and attacks.
Now, it is a flag, signifying the fall of a soldier, and calling for assistance.
Now, it is a promise—a hope that pain would reside and that wounds will close, bringing a new start.