I returned
dripping in soundless blood
Flesh torn open on the side
Gaping wound, organs exposed
aching

Dragging torn flesh
down the street

I was body meat
Human remains of a suicide bomb
lost in translation

No one could see

I sat in your free office
Next to stacks of
colorless government peaches
Donated clothes, a promise of delight

I sat in the invisible blood of others before me
What can I do about this wound?
My silent question