Bandaids for Bad Dreams

Bandaids for Bad Dreams

I wish there were bandaids for all the cuts on my arm,
but there’s no bandaids, because I can’t tell anybody
that I’m bleeding.

I wish there were bandaids for all my scars,
long-healed they may be—but they’re still aching,
and everyone can see them.

I have to make my own bandaids. 
I put lipstick on my face, y’know, to hide the frown
even if it’ll hurt when it comes off.

Paper after paper after paper in my desk,
song after song after song,
That I’ll plaster all over the cuts on my brain.

I wish there were bandaids for bad dreams.
bandaids that will shut my mouth when I open it at night and scream,
bandaids that will close over my lips when I talk too much.

My thoughts are running away from me
and I’d better go catch them
before my teacher sees all the pieces of medical tape holding them together.

People keep interrupting me
while I’m trying to cover the blood in my breath
with words.

I wish there were bandaids for bad dreams,
because there’s nothing holding back the flood,
not a thin gauze to keep the demons at bay.

I wish there were bandaids for bad dreams,
because if there were, I think I’d be okay.