He bleeds on me, over the desk
his arm is fresh from violence,
self-inflicted self-righteousness
now flowing from him, mouth and body
spewing anger, onto my desk,
onto my skin, into my ears
his rantings blurred into a run
on sentence, now he turns and walks away
mumbling something loud, the blood
now dripping on the floor, it splats
and smacks his shoe and stains his shirt,
a hand is back right at my nose,
i smell soiled comprehension
in his voiceless plea for "help me,"
a dangerous desperation,
fails to stop my inner need
to shut him up and clean his mess,
to cleanse my arm, to cleanse my soul
from the blood he spills next weekend,
more than just his own.
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