see the red.
it’s running all over my hands.
pooling. glistening.
staining the carpet in front of me.
and oh my god, the smell-
years later, it lingers in the hairs of my nose.
is it obvious? are my hands still red?
it was only a oui bit of red.
i didn’t know any better.
i was innocent. just a boy.
just a little boy.
”be a good boy.” they’d say.
”don’t be like the others. play it safe.”
i still don’t know any better.
i didn’t know how red that red could be.
especially as it dripped down my fingers.
what if they find out? what will they think?
i clenched my hands tight.
i hid the red. the terrible thing that i’ve done.
the sin against god. against nature.
i’ve been clenching my hands ever since.
as they lower my body into the ground,
still, my hands will remain clenched.
i’ll never let them see:
how red that my hands could be.
I need more poetry Steve!
Man this is awesome. loved every word.
Okay.
So you can't drop engrossing narrative poetry like this and just log off of substack.
Super good, bro.
The like count on this is criminal.