Mess

A man split in two appears as one.  Which side does he show, which does he hide?  He owes no explanation but he owes it to himself to understand.  He'll never come to terms with all of this through words alone, but what actions has he been granted?  His eyes are burning with passion and compassion. Handkerchiefs are good for tears but this is acid.  It has burned through him.  His skin needs tending to, lips not withstanding. His muscles need mending, heart not withstanding.  His flesh is exposed, and his deepest layer seers in your sunlight. He burns for you still, don't you see?  Have you no Oasis, no pond in this desert from which he could drink; drink so he can make it to the other side of his travels?

Would you mend me? Would you tend to me?  I don't know.  It's only flesh after all. It shouldn't concern you when I bleed, it should concern you when I no longer.  The stains may never be lifted, what a mess I've made.  And you. What more words would you like to lay down on the ground beside you as false?  Here against the hot sand I close my own wounds and mend together my sides with my words. I offer you a small fabric filled with them because I see that I have spilled blood on you, but you grab them by the blade instead of the handle.  Now you too are bleeding. What a mess I've made. I am guilty: Negligent use of a deadly weapon. These words were too sharp. Punishable in my tribe as a principle offence.  I will turn the blade towards me and fall on my own sword.  A man split in two will appear as a man in two. What a mess I am about to make.