I saw your knees.
You fell to the concrete.
I tried to wash them off,
all I did was prevent the blood from scabbing.
The summer time heat beat down on us.
Our whole town smelled like fresh cut grass and flesh grilling.
The smell of blood was only slightly stronger.
The red ran down your legs
matching your sneakers
until it dried, off color and rusty.
It dried into the hair on your leg.
Someone as grown as you shouldn't have been falling off swingsets.
The bandage was oversized and covered in neosporin.
I taped it on.
Each attempt was another greasy red streak.
The hair was smeared in all directions
like paint across an artist's face.
I looked down at my hands covered in your mess.
Dirt. Grass. Antibacterial.
I wiped sweat from my forehead
and smeared you across it
like ashes for wednesday.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.