the metal is cold
against warmth that pulses,
a comfort of the sort only silence knows—
skin thin as memories,
layers of old hurts
cracked like winter's earth.
you said,
it would be like flight—
the edge where all else falls away,
a sharpness to make everything simple,
a cutting line between
now and not now.
the room has no walls
no floor
only air,
only the way steel glints in half-light
reflecting back your breath,
a shiver of wanting
and fearing that wanting.
the blade is not salvation,
the blade is a question,
asked without a word—
what will you be?
what will you leave?
held there—just a kiss to the skin,
not quite breaking—
and in that moment,
between yes and no,
you are something pure,
something that might break
or might choose not to.
