Bloody Hands

My memories coat my hands in ice and permeate my waking air with a metallic scent.

I killed someone.

Nobody blamed me. I don’t either. Still, endless nights spirit me away to the year-old scene.

My roommates — the third in two months — are tired. I will move again soon. Maybe I’ll stop one day. Just like mother did.

Maybe we’ll meet again.

Then, I can apologize.

But until then, I will continue in my selective realism, living a carefully curated life of lies and truths.