The Blood on My Hands

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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s