No Dinner Until You Wash Your Hands

I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean to stare.
I couldn’t help but notice,
The dried blood in your hair.

Your head,
Scrubbed so pink and raw,
Trying to forget it,
But so hard to ignore.

Your fingers,
So pink and sparkling clean,
Pointing, pricking, everywhere,
So startlingly pristine.

You almost,
Seem to have forgotten,
The hours of work it took,
To make them oh so clean.

The bleach,
And the ammonia,
The lard and soap and sand,
Coating your paranoia.

You have,
Panicked determination,
Using guilt when the soap’s gone.
Out of sight, out of mind.

I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean to stare.
No amount of guilt can wash,
The dried blood from your hair.