Maybe we’re all just a note
Messily scribbled in black ink
On the back of someone’s hand.

Important enough
To be frantically jotted down for
Just a moment
Yet temporary enough
To be washed away mistakenly
Or scrubbed off intentionally.

Maybe rewritten
Over and over and over again
On top of the faded ghost format
Giving the lines color again.
Gaining shape again.
But has the pen run out of ink yet?

By mistake or intention,
It is difficult to decide the less fortunate.
It is easy to become bitter
By the soap and water.
But have we taken a moment
To glance at our own hands?
Are we writing toxic notes
In the form of thick sharpie ink
On the backs of our shaking hands
In hopes to remind ourselves
Of what we are convinced
Deserves tattooed ink?

If their hands are bare
While yours are blackened,
Please find the courage
To find a sink.

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