by Jake Murray24 May 2015
It is the blood we cannot see
that bleeds the most, the wounds
we carry on our heart, the hauntings
that come to us in the dark; these
are the knives that cut deepest,
wielded by our own,
or other hands.
It is the blood that flows
without noise that drains us. In the
light of day, the smile in the street,
the crowded carriage, the scars
form unnoticed within. We do not
feel them hardening, our laughter
a poultice for the pain.
We rise from the water,
hoping the blood will be washed
in the sand. The wounds stay with us
for years as phantoms, more
lingering than any in our flesh.
We offer up our grief to the stars.
We pray for purgation