So once again I take the knife out of my side
Blood stains my clothes
But I have long gotten used to the pain

I find a tree in a secluded place
Deep in the forest
As I sit and lean against it
I look at the blue sky

The blurry sky

What hurts the most is not the knife
But the hands that plunge it at me

If I collected them
You would see hundreds of weapons
Knifes, spears, axes, darts, bullets

With this collection, surely I could retaliate
I could but….

I never keep them.

It’s not the one who attacks me with the knife that’s my enemy
It’s the one who gives them the knife…