I’m not going to keep saying sorry for
all the times my fingers have
cut themselves on the thick blade
of danger, that swings back and forth,
between my right mind and the one
that’s oh so wrong. Because when
the shiny sharp of that wrong place
makes me bleed, you act like you
never saw a thing, but I see blood on
your hands. I see blood on your hands.
Pretending will not ever wash it off.