A Pocket Knife
It wasnt fair how way you initialed my heart.
Those two letters, they hate that you embarrassed them; even the alphabet barred them from making a home together. Those initials, they hurt. I’ll open my chest and show just what the pair can do they represent a monster’s name.
It wasnt fair the way you initialed my soul.
But, then, it wasnt smart that I handed you the pen. Or was it a marker? No, it was a knife. A pocket knife.
And carve was what you did. Like sweethearts would do to terrorize a tree in 1950’s movies because inflicting scars somehow represented pain. Like pumpkins, who are still always named jack-o-lanterns, even though they cant understand why when nobody ever makes scary any more. Like watermelon shells being stripped of their insides, ones that watered the flower of their own souls in order to thrive.
We never ask if those things hurt.
Let me tell you, it does. It really, really does.
Even the knife itself apologized for falling into a hell bent hand led by barbaric heart! I’m sure every knife that meets a pocket, is unaware of it’s possible calling. Unaware of the hearts it will carve into, around, inside, above, below, with brute strength, with cowardly shakes.
You know, I’d cross my own—I’d cross my heart and even hope to die but you did both of those things for me with your Jagged upside down hook.
It wasnt fair but I still open the wound everyday.
Its not smart the way I wont let it heal.