I’ve bled too many stories.
Spilt out my tales like wine.
Blankets barely warm me.
Spooling out their line.
It seems I’m always bruising.
Always crying time.
Projecting out on others
Some weak imagined crime.
The cool naked feeling
Is that I try so hard.
To always follow kindness
And not be so on-guard.
But still there is a haunting;
A deep remembered crime.
That won’t wash off with water.
And will not pass with time.