Late

Very late. Late night. Saturday. Or Sunday.
I greeted this mornings sun stained in blood like the sun rising on my face.
A hospital behind me, I walked, looking for home and the familiar.
I dripped blood on the bus and ate sesame sticks slowly from a small bag that had survived the night with me. I wondered how I'd ended up where I was at. It was not the first time.
I got home and saw myself, looked at my reflection in the mirror.
It was fearsome. I was a hairy beast of a creature, coated in my own blood, puffy and oozing in my livelihood; I could taste myself.
I slept for a couple hours and took my beaten frame to work. I was late, and did what I could to buttress my mind against the onslaught of humanity and need that I knew my work would throw at me.
My work ended and I went out again, with my puffy lip and soreness. I saw a show and went to a party. I kept going.

It's over now.
I'm home. I can go to sleep, finally. My wounds will heal. I can pick the little black thing embedded in my palm out in the morning.