Blood on My Hands

I look down to see

blood stained on my hands,

painted with splattering strokes

that carpet my palm and hide 

under my nails. I rush 

to the sink and begin to scrub 

at my skin, but it’s no use, nothing

changes. I scrub faster, crying

for help, but there’s no one there.

Why won’t it come off?

I look in the sink, expecting 

to see water, but all I see

is a red River running coldly

down the drain. I was washing

blood with blood.