Guest Post by a WAVAW Volunteer
I carry with me a double-edged knife. I carry this knife close to me, in a hidden pocket.
I keep my wallet there, reaching often.
Outside I carry this knife close to me, brushing against soft, uneasy shoulders.
“Do I deserve friends?”
This knife I carry with me unsheathed. I carry it with me in my sleep.
(Who gave me this knife?)
During the day when I walk across campus. I use this knife as a bookmark.
(I do not like knives.)
During the night when I move across the dance floor. I put the knife inside my shoes.
“Why is there a hole in my pocket?”
I am learning to cradle the flat edge. Knead it into shape.
“Where did my change go?”
During the day the dried blood falls within the crevice. During the day I notice marks on my hands.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I reach for it often. My fingers bleed.
“Who gave me this knife?”
I see a dark figure in the night. I see a dark figure resembling him.
“I didn’t ask for this knife.”
I carry this knife in my pocket.
“Where can I put this knife?”
My fingers bleed.
“You need this knife.”
I carve something in the walls of the bathroom. When one blade gets dull I use the other.
“You need this knife.”
I sharpen the blade against the cement.
“Who gave me this knife?”
I sharpen the blade against a coin.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I stare at the sun’s reflection against the blade.
“Do I deserve friends?”
Which side shines brighter?
(I’m sorry. I’m sorry.)
One day I cannot find my knife.
(I deserve friends.)
One day I buy a new one.
(I deserve better.)
One day I find the knife I kept for so long in a museum.
(I deserve more than this sharpness.)
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
(I deserve more than holes in my pocket.)
I see my reflection in the knife. I see everyone else looking.
“I deserve more. You deserve better.”
I don’t say anything. I have a new knife.
“I am not sorry.”
There are creatures on the sheath of my knife. A beautiful object.
I am not sorry.
I cut vegetables with my knife. I spread jam with my knife.
I like my knife.
I smile as I grip the handle.
I smile as I cut the bread in half.
