My hands are not red,
But they feel like they are.
My hands are not dirty or immoral,
But I think they are all the time.
My hands have not killed, nor raped,
But sometimes I think they have,
Without me.
Sometimes I wash my hands.
I try and clean them the best I can.
But I still feel the redness on them,
Their dirtiness, the scoundrels.
I don't know what they did.
I don't know how.
But they did something, and it was no fault of mine.
But I am to blame.
My hands are red.
And you may not see it,
But I know you know it's there.
Lee Gelis
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-hands-are-not-red/
