Impulse sheds from shaded eyes of excuse
Into excused actions by an impulsive hand.
Five fingers, palm, and wrist
Armored by transparent latex that peels
Only when caught dripping poisonous red,
And, with tears on paper,
Confesses dysfunctional restraint
And, with this,
Fulfills a crime done and uncommitted.

But there is residue between fingers
And fallacy in tears directly hitting the page
As if the mark mistakenly left, seemingly all too deliberate,
Is false.

See, silence is awaiting death
And truth is pulling the trigger
And staining the innocence you forced yourself to believe.
But deceit is simply stalling the inevitable,
A debt
That only gains interest over time.

Because one day,
Wide eyes will strike upon the hint of crimson on thumb
And, only then will you finally understand
The truth
In a