Small Irritations

There is dried blood under my fingernails.
The clay lies stiff on the table
where it hardened as I was staring at my hands
and wondering why the only splash of red
is crusted and crumbling at my fingertips.

I washed my hands a thousand times this afternoon,
but every time I catch a glimpse of skin
I have to look away and remember not to vomit;
I shaped the clay around myself
but couldn't block out the smell of blood.

I asked the people that I saw to tell me
if they could see the blood beneath my fingernails,
but they only laughed and told me 'no'.
I think that they were lying to me
because it's still here and I can't wash it away.

Eventually I have no choice but to bury my fingers
deep inside my palms. I try to smile
but my face is cracking, cracking like the hard,
dried clay on the table. I ask myself:
'Who did I kill and eat today?