Knife
Knife.
From
the kitchen drawer
pressed against
my bare flesh.
Rubbing.
Scraping.
Cutting.
Slicing.
I watch the blade
saw back and forth,
bringing crimson quickly to the surface.
Yes, I see it,
but I feel no pain.
My brain must be
disconnected
or something.
I dont even record
gripping the knife
or moving it this way.
I only remember
the way the blood shone
on the knife.
From
the kitchen drawer
pressed against
my bare flesh.
Rubbing.
Scraping.
Cutting.
Slicing.
I watch the blade
saw back and forth,
bringing crimson quickly to the surface.
Yes, I see it,
but I feel no pain.
My brain must be
disconnected
or something.
I dont even record
gripping the knife
or moving it this way.
I only remember
the way the blood shone
on the knife.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.