my hands are stained with blood, i can only pray it isn’t yours; i’m drunk on low self-esteem, drifting from these shores, my mind - the sail - is full. the wind is blown. the seeds of this sunken ship are sown.
i hold my hand out in the light, my fingers tremble, palms unsteady; the blood sits in its crevices tight. i frantically rub my hands in sea, the waves, the salt, wash over me; yet my hands—not coarse—stay bloody pale.
i think, it is too late, the blood has filled my lines of fate. i try to paddle back to shore, Yet, my mind - the sail - is full. the wind is blown. the seeds of this sunken ship are sown.