I am the sharpest point,
the metal that cuts through flesh,
the blade that pierces skin,
the tool that inflicts anguish.
I am remorseless,
unfeeling and cold,
a weapon only seeking
to do as I am told.
My wielder's trembling hand
holds me with trepidation,
fearing the consequences
of one wrong move or hesitation.
But it is not my fault
when the blood begins to flow,
nor is it my intent
for the pain to grow and grow.
I am just a tool,
an object in their hand,
a means to an end,
the cut that they demand.
So blame not me,
for your wounds and your scars,
for it is the hand that wields me
and the mind that orders the charge.
