I am not present
my mind often absent
the blood of the past
ripples and seeps into my skin
into every pore
ripping right through to my core.
as it drips and flows,
it tears and burns.
I cleanse my hands
to purify and erase
but it latches and embeds into me-
a suffocating, sadistic embrace.
its crimson residue cracks and splits
into the grooves of my hands,
into every palm crevice
I want to remiss,
to relinquish its grasp
to finally release.
but no matter how many times
I wash my hands
the past remains on my palms,
my skin permanently stained red.
does the past coat my hands
or am I bleeding now?
I look at the remnants and shadows
how it embedds into me
and I cannot breathe.
YOU ARE READING
liberation
Poetrycollection of poems and thoughts my heart and brain cut open , fragments of my soul spooled onto digital pages. With every word typed , I experience a taste of liberation
