Red Hands

Drenched in the
evidence of our crime,
we became defiled.
Your palms no more dark
than mine.

Crusting scabs ran along in a
watered-down attempt to
clean what was wrought. I
remember
that of which I am guilty.
I cannot help but
wonder if you even
remember me.

But I have learned not to
trust any beautiful thing.
Would you warn your own child
against people like you?

by Erik Shinker

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8 thoughts on “Red Hands

  1. Pingback: Red Hands — Perpetually Past Due | Slattery's Magazine

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