Plaster

I would rather
the plaster,
beige and wrinkled
at the corners
were ripped,
clinging onto my sparse hairs
as it may do,
than sit,
festering over the wound.

I would prefer
the latter,
swift and sharp
was seized,
than slowly curled
pulling skin,
too taut,
for my delicately sheathed ego

Let’s not make
this harder,
long and lingering
in cankered places,
where infection
spreads,
under this gauze
we formed
to prolong us.