A Bandaid

His fan was always on.

The overhead fan that hung against those burgundy walls. 

He left it on even when it stopped being warm. 

When the night air chilled the room and he should have turned the fan off but he never did. 

The fan was always on. 

It was always on and I hated it I hated how cold I got.  

He had one blanket, one thin, brown blanket. 

And it was enough to keep a child warm but not me. 

Most nights even underneath that thin blanket I was so cold. 

His body heat was always so far away. 

The last time I ever saw him he called me a salve. 

You're like aloe vera to a sunburn. 

It wasn't meant as a compliment. 

He previously had told me, the day he left a voicemail screaming Fuck You.

He told me that same day You know you're just a bandaid right?

Except then I was still strong. 

Then I calmly replied, No I'm not.

But the last time I ever saw him I wasn't strong anymore. 

I was cold and sad and frightened. 

You know I'm doing everything I can to destroy this, right?

Everything I can.

Fuck, I should have ran.

But I was just a salve. 

And he hadn't written the song for me. 

And he'd choose her again.

And he wanted me to leave but I stayed. 

I stayed. 

And I was still cold. 

And I don't remember why. 

I don't understand any of it. 

He walked over to his closet and grabbed the quilt, the one other blanket, the one that was actually warm. 

The one that hadn't been on his bed in months. 

Do you want a blanket, he asked me. 

And I shivered and nodded. 

And I suppose I wanted to believe the man who wanted to hand me a blanket when he saw I was cold was real.

But everything from that night feels unreal.

Like every moment with him.

Because none of it was real.

The quilt was real. 

And the fan. 

And the glowing elephant. 

And the green book in the window. 

But not him.

I was a bandaid. 

And he was a parasite I couldn't destroy.