Joaquin Carvel

milk white skin and hair like ink
bleeding in a bathroom sink
trying to exsanguinate
the wretchedness
the reprobate

why are all your
shirtsleeves long
why do all my
words sound wrong

turning inward, iron-clad
even each small smile is sad
downcast eyes that rarely raise
haven’t had a
meal in days

who has filled you
with misgiving
made you so afraid
of living

carved reliefs and pins and blades
losing friends and faith and grades
drops of crimson, wrung from clover
black and white and
red all over

forget I asked;
just let me sit.
these scars of mine
are testament.