I look down at the blood on my hands and wonder how it got there and if this was how Jesus Christ felt as he suffocated under the crushing weight of the guilt of all of humanity.
I don’t think that my hands have been stained this deeply by my own sins, despite the fact that I’ve been told time and time again that it’s not my place to be apologetic for anyone besides myself, no matter how much their transgressions remind me of an amplified version of my own.
When I hold my hands up to the light the arguments stop dead. Mouths open, then close. Heads turn away.
What they don’t realize is that it’s their transgressions that they are choosing to turn away from.
I won’t wash my hands of them because someone has to remember. More importantly, someone has to be accountable.
Even though I know that they would never do the same for me.