A Knife

A knife

Is so innocent with the potential for so much harm.

So shiny, so pristine when maintained.

I’ve imagined those knives in the kitchen,

So sharp with their ebony handles,

Plunged into my chest

With the ebony handle jutting out from between my breasts

I would heave for breath,

Waiting for the sweet relief of death,

The ultimate darkness to rescue me

From the black hole that was consuming me.

So simple a thought,

Letting it all end in a sea of red,

A sea that even Moses wouldn’t have been able to spread.

That monster sat on the clean white counter,

Staring at me and begging for me to allow it

To see my life finally end,

Allow it to rescue me from that all-consuming darkness.

There were moments that I almost gave in,

Found my sticky fingers reaching for that ebony handle,

But I couldn’t do it

Because in my ear were other voices begging me to stop

To not give in

To think of them

To see that I was loved

To see that monster in perspective,

To see it for all that it really was.

So simple. So innocent.

A knife.

This poem is about: 
Me

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