& This Matters Too

Unfelt.

Blade hovering, anticipating the caress of blood on its cool surface.
The moment before hate collides with innocence, ripping it to exposed cuts of impure intentions.
The knife searches for something upon contact, a reason to keep pushing.
Or maybe that's the soul fighting its way outward, escaping through the red-streaked windows.
This was not a battle to become, it was a battle to be.
No one knew.
The knife didn't know it was made to kill.
It only knew it had purpose in disaster matters,
So it slit slit slit away until there was more blood on the outside than inside.
And still no one knew.
Left lying around, abandoned to enemy thoughts, the knife was made for more than thin skins of an old fruit.
And not a single person understood how it could drive so much pain away while still creating more.
It stole not just perfect arms and neglected thoughts,
It stole what it thought necessary to redeem it's only spare chance at triumph.
I guess we are all victim to something.
Even the knives that create our torn skin.
And hold the possibility of a scarred horizon,
Not the simplicity of a straight line but jagged.
Terror is unfelt, stamped out with cold feet on the doormats of locked rooms in our bodies.
Unheard screams from unnoticed skin.
Aren't we all waiting for someone to look at us and wonder?
Yet we know it's easier to be ignored than recognized.
That's why no one knew when she cut too deep.
And why unheard screams and pooled blood were just reminders why hate shouldn't be unrivaled with fear.

-s.l