i used to believe in a redemptive quality about honesty
as if the truth itself was true enough to be considered pure
the uncovering of ourselves akin to surrender -
i thought i could save myself if i tried -
so i extended my arms upwards, tensing
the joints in my fingers to achieve the right posture -
but i didn't know where to face my palms,
clueless as the murderer who surrenders
the red stains on his hands
to coarse water from a rusty tap
and trails down the sides of the sink,
down pipes and drains, and finally,
into the sea, where sin is diluted
to a subtler shade by the collective
sympathy of the others who decided to baptise
themselves in the same salt water
(i saw some of them go down, once,
but when they emerged, they were wet
and nothing more).