Simple divisions are the most dangerous.
Lines that cut
us apart.
I feel and see too many of them;
spaces we don't want to explore
with great high walls between them
signed in red as "discovered".
And people with too many angers
for their simple faces to tell.

I say it shows too plainly
that blood is only skin deep.
Outside ourselves we are content
to differ at a glance
and fit and bundle and suffocate
all manner of things into one.
In a comparison of many to many
the lines get thicker and sharper
and because blood is only skin deep
we see it more often than we might.

Why does it not register?
Why should its message seem so obscure?
It screams and stains,
thickens and stains,
heals and stains,
it stains us.

Perhaps blood, only skin deep,
is still buried beyond our reach
and in a fit of obsession
we change and twist what we can.
A desperate struggle to rid ourselves
of ourselves.

The blood we know is safe,
or perhaps just too close
to take apart and reinvent
And so we look elsewhere
to sever our connection
with lines we cling to
lines that bind
lines to divide
lines can describe
lines that listen
lines can inspire
lines to imprison
lines at the very edges of our vision
catching all the light for the sake of easy decision.

Our blood is only skin deep
but our lines are held deeper
and so much harder to spill.