The Knife

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The knife edge taunts me. It stares at me, hard, at once beckoning and daring. I can feel its need to merge with me, its cold steel, razor, thirsting for a union with my flesh.   I hold it, gripped tight, in an unsteady hand, and the kn...

The knife edge taunts me.

It stares at me, hard,

at once beckoning and daring.

I can feel its need to merge with me,

its cold steel, razor, thirsting for a union

with my flesh.

 

I hold it, gripped tight,

in an unsteady hand,

and the knife seems to squirm in my grip

like a rabbit before butchering.

It is both light as air and heavy as grief

and I cannot seem to relinquish my grasp.

 

The knife sings to me,

a siren song I alone can hear

and I dance to its tune

like a marionette dances to an organist.

The knife yearns for my blood and I am a hair's-breadth

from giving in, letting it have free reign.

 

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