The blood on my hands
Might show how much I’ve survived.
But to tell you the truth,
All the bruises that I have caused,
All the sparks that I’ve stomped out,
Scare me to death.
They are not proof of my survival.
They are proof of my ruthlessness.
They remind me of my inhumanity.
And so I wash the blood away,
And look away from the bruises.
I ignore all the sparks,
And pretend they’re not brighter than mine.
Oh, how I pretend nowadays.
But at least that way?
I can live with myself.