Red hands. Restless hands. Blood painted along the ridges
of my ribs, down the ladder of my spine-
rigid in the teasing, tight light, under the cover of night.
There are no answers living inside the hush and hum of shadows.
I've stopped asking why. Stopped wondering if I should crawl
out of tent # 104, or if I should stay inside and doze all day.
Nowhere to go. Seven months of nothingness.
My blood tastes sweetest washing through the heart
of another, but now it has a bitter bite as I toss and turn,
alone, for another day, lying on hard ground,
tangled in a single sheet.
It’s as if I am the only one alive at this camp, at dawn,
holding back the urge to come, to run, to scream, to pray-
surging urges smudged like war paint across my cheeks and lips-
erasing my features from my face.
I am living a life, now, where only camouflage can save me.