She always spoke of love
As though it were a weapon
And taught us to cover the scars it gave us.
So for a long time I hid from it.
I even left the knife love gave me sheathed
Resting in the bottom of my cabinet drawer.
Every now and then I’d hold it,
Finding comfort in the way I could make it move.
Yet never confident enough to use it.
Love was the knife
I buried in the back yard
To try to keep her safe.
So when one morning I woke
And saw you
Holding that knife
I did not stop to think.
As I held it
The blade’s movement, its weight
Barely familiar through the haze of the past.
But deftly I sunk the blade into your chest
Knowing now that I could not remove it.