of_all_things
a_poem_by // clementine_jane_merlin_pendragon
it is used for bread twice a year;
if she’s lucky.
sometimes a loaf of bread comes
and she’s the best tool there.
curve then spike then curve then spike
curve, spike
curve and spike,
repeated from handle to her flat edged tip.
sometimes,
when the washing isn’t done,
a week’s worth of knives lying about,
unclean,
crusted with day old remnants,
the bread knife comes out;
for her second job…
piercing the plastic on ready meals—
but only when the other knives are unclean.
and then tonight,
her first time here,
taken for her little use,
taken for her untouched sharp tip
taken by a hand empty and pained,
cut,
tear,
slide across the skin,
uneven cuts,
different lengths and depths,
most are just red marks,
crimson beads line some,
only pale ravines for others.
first time for her,
not the first for the other.
below the newly broken skin are scars,
old and scattered,
many years,
many years,
juvenile influence had passed.
i did move on,
but then i came back,
then i asked for her.
a bread knife of all things.