When I close my eyes and lay down,

looking at the ceiling, or the sky beyond,

looking at people, or their souls beyond,

looking at choices, or the reason behind,

looking at art, or the muse behind,

looking at objects, or the sentiment behind.

When I look, I look too deep,

longing for a story, longing for a voice.

When I see a wound, I scrape at it,

maybe trying to find where it came from,

Perhaps, if I scrape the edges, I'll find its beginning and end.

But... a wound doesn't like being touched,

and blood oozes out as my hands turn red,

tainted by someone else's tragedy.

Yet, I hold on to it, never looking away,

trying to heal every piece of it, as if my own.

And so, I close my eyes and lie down,

but my crimson hands still move…