Stained

He now lies
peacefully
strewn across the floor.
I eye the blood
that paints my hand.
I open the bathroom door.

The mirror stares
with scornful eyes.
"What have you just done?
How good did it make you feel
to kill a father, a husband,
a son?"

I shut
the little voices out,
and proceed to wash my hands.
The blood streaks down
into the drain.
The water understands.

As I dry my hands,
I see
they are still stained with blood.
When I turn
to rinse again,
the water turns to mud.

I scream
and tear off all my clothes
to wash off all the red.
I hear
a dead man's laughter
echo inside my head.

Under
frigid water,
the shower doesn't do.
I scrub until
my hands are raw;
my body's black and blue.

Then, the dead man
walks in to say,
"Young man, can't you see?
Upon your
sinful hands will
my blood forever be."