it’s not hello kitty bandaids and barely-there bruises and fading into pastel-pale.

it’s “what’s the weather like for the next week so I can figure out where it’ll be hidden?”

it’s spending more money than the parent of an overactive toddler on bruise healing ointments and antiseptics and ugly-ass rolls of medical tape and gauze or bandaids.

it’s oh-shits in the locker room because they become so easily forgotten once they start to heal up, when you can poke and prod and it’s almost like normal but they’re still there sticking out like a sore thumb.

it’s learning how your body heals and then having to relearn it because maybe you got the flu two weeks ago and your whole immune system is still getting with the times.

it’s saving up for black bedsheets so anything that goes astray goes unnoticed, just in case.

it’s the pain, the before-during-after. fuck the pretty-pastel-pale with lace dresses and white sheets and pink bandaids that’ll stick long enough for a photo before they fall off.

it’s the smell of medical. of over-clean alcohol-based antiseptics and creams that work wonders but fuck knows what’s in them. it’s ugly bandaids that are never invisible despite their claims.

it’s the ball that comes after, when the skin goes cool and the clotting starts. it’s the elusive comfortable spot to curl into with just-enough warmth and pressure without making it hurt worse.