Stinking Hands

There are places I dismembered,
cut into chunks of bleeding meat
falling off my hands. These hands
washed off the meat using gutter water
from some neglected alley
of my labyrinth of memories.
These are stinking wetlands, wet
with all the pieces no longer
making sense. I could not escape them,
unable to scrape them off the skin
of my skull. They rebuild anew,
forcing themselves up my throat
like a vomit, or nose like a puss.

Some places are parasites.
You kill them with your hands.
They are reborn still.