There is blood on my hands, though I wash them clean:
blood of men dead by my silence,
shame I hid for his sake, for hers.

And now the shattering has begun
I stand in a still place and I wonder,
did I do right by my closed lips?
Or did I think only to protect myself,
and hide behind supposed innoncence?

Did I create for myself righteousness
so I could stand back and judge
implicated by association,
  blameless by my own accounting?

Be it all as it may, blood is shed
and it housed a life now gone
a life that can be laid at my feet
on my head
staining my hands
Blood is red
guilt is heavy
shame is endless.
I am tired.


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