red ink

When I finally came to,
utterly alone
and nude all the way around –
with nary a sound –
I couldn’t remember.

All that remained
was my dark splattered fingertips
(is it red ink or blood?)
(or poison or mud?)
and a vague sense of unease

that I couldn’t shake off
no matter how I tried.
There must be a gaping hole in my brain
(am I going insane?)
right between my wide eyes.

I haven’t seen my own self
(because I’m scared witless)
in the dark dusty mirror
coming ever nearer
to a terrible act of destruction.

When I finally came to,
confused and weary
with no one to explain –
to ask to remain –
I wished I could remember.