My knife is Damascus steel,
I make a point of sharpening it regularly.
Coarse whetstone, twenty-degree angle,
gritty abrasive rasp, metallic ringing.
I make a point to hum along to
the song playing in the background.
I spill water on the floor and act accordingly.
The evening tastes like table salt.
There is a clawing behind my ribs
and I make a point to ignore it.
Cutting the vegetables into chunks—
slice after slice after slice after slice.
I make a point not to let my eyes linger
on the blade and on the thought
of how terrifyingly easy it would be.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
