It is one thing to spill out scarlet in deep brown slashes and another to curse someone else to share the same fate.

The faucet still spits out the white gushing water and the handwash bubbles still froth and fizz on cold metal. I've wiped that damned paper cutter, over and over, my fingers peppered with tiny slashes as try to scrub the sin off the blade.

The blood won't go.
For it is not just mine.

I did not want any of this to happen, though I know it was my fault. Consequences, you see, and I must suffer for it. Even if I pick up the blade once more in what feels like years and drag it through skin over and over. Even if I pick apart the clots and see them cry red again. Even if I never heal. Even if I die.

Anything to fix what I have done. Anything to wipe off the blood of another from my hands. Anything so I don't hurt who I love. Anything to repent.

The blood won't go.

So I try to wipe clean the paper cutter that started it all. Remove those stains. Apologies fix nothing. Wash it off with soap and water. Till I don't see a speck of crimson on it. Till I forget. Till I am forgiven. Till forever.

The blood won't go.
The blood won't go.
The blood won't go.
The blood won't go.
The blood won't go.

You deserve to see the consequences of your own actions.

© Hyde