These cannot be my hands.
They've killed too many men.
This cannot be my skin
That's been cut time and time again.

I glance at my reflection,
Then turn my face in shame.
Who is this freak show looking back at me,
Who tells me I'm to blame?

Whose blood is dried upon my hands,
This dirt across my cheek?
Whose gun is this that shot down lives,
Women, children, men and meek?

Whose words are these upon my tongue,
**** like soured wine?
Whose clothes are these upon my chest?
Surely they cannot be mine?

Whose sins are these, the dark and many
That fill an entire sea?
With narrowed eyes, I realize
These sins belong to me.