cringe poetry with sati

blood

there's blood on my hands and i'm not sure why
my palms are coated in a strange red color
it wasn't here the other day, was it?
when was the other day?

far too much blood to be from a picked scab
or a slight graze from a knife
too much to be a papercut
but it's too little to worry about now, right?

i'll take care of it later
at some point i'll wash these hands
i'll remember where it came from
and it'll go away, surely.

i wake up in the morning and look down at my hands

oh god, there's more