I wash my hands compulsively at a green and rusted sink. My hands are stained blue and black from the administering of beatings. No lye can clean the bruises from my mind. I put them there myself in the foolishness of youth.
With every selfish inconsideration. With each hostile self-indulgence. With all of the depravity of recklessness and privilege.
All this knowledge of is plucked from my soiled list of personal experience. Not postulated from the imaginings of lengthy lexicon.
And I ashamed.
9:48 p.m. - 2015-06-02
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