Blood on My Praying Hands

And that was the last time you ever saw me. It took me hours to get home on that day. Determined, and exhausted due to the complete absence of sleep over the previous three days. I found no luck in getting any rest at the train tracks the night before. The mosquitos at my skin kept me awake despite my efforts to dig my face into my backpack or to pull my sleeves over my fingers. Peace and security had far left this terror of reality I was existing in.

The sun eventually came up, and I rose with it. That sense of safety I felt under the stars was burned away by the blaze of the sun. Dazed, I wondered if what happened really did on the night before. Time was a blurry ghost, following me everywhere. Catching up to me and leaving me at the same time. I walked for miles dizzyingly toward a bus stop across town. Every step distancing me from a life I knew I had to leave behind and forget. But there was no forgetting.

I remember vividly a man who stopped his truck in front of me asking if I needed anything and offered me a soda. I was grateful at his compassion, but I couldn't help but think: "Do I really look that messed up?" After all, I had my favorite jacket on. But I suppose it's true the eyes don't lie. Either way I was relieved. I did not however have a bottle opener, and the drink was kept in glass. I tried to open it by hitting the top of the bottle on the corner of a wall. And with my delirious technique, I shattered the bottle and spilled the entire soda. In an instant, my hands were holding nothing but shards of glass. Defeated, I went back and waited for the bus. At least I knew I was going home, and things were going to change.

(P.S.) I didn't see the blood on my hands until the bus ride. I was writing a few lines of poetry, and I began to notice the streaks of blood on the pages:

The Ocean Sank to The Sky

And All Became Lost

And All Became Found