My brother owns a knife.
My brother owns a knife, and he speaks of how he will use it.
He laughs but I know it's not a joke. I can tell when he disappears, when he goes on long drives, when he doesn't speak. Some part of me can't help to think he might leave and he won't come back.
I tell him to throw it away but he speaks of how he needs it. He says someday I will too.
My brother is lying. I can see it in the way his hands shake.
When he leaves home I feel the blade between my fingertips. I see how it looks as I turn it in my hand. I can't help to think that maybe he is right. Maybe it is all just a big joke. I can't help but admire his precision, the way it moves as if it were another hand for his body. Part of me wishes it was like that for me too.
I am aware this is what I wished I would never become, but it is already too late. I have always been this. I have always been me.
