|
the
man stands before the mirror
with blood in his hair
with blood on his hands
with blood streaking his light skin
the man picks up a cloth and starts to scrub
his fingers ache and his back hurts
he knows he must cleanse himself
no one else knows he bleeds
not even the ones he bleeds for
the blood is thick and he can smell it
each drop a memory
and he sees them all
the salty sweat and the blood stings his thick
skin
it is his affection
he knows it does no good to wash
the blood comes back every day
|
