Knife Poem by Kara Dawkins

Rough yet smooth yet safe.
Clutching desperately for fear that it may fall
And swiftly slice through our skin;
Exposing our blood to the tiled floor.
Holding the cold, stiff, plastic limb
Filled with temptation
Sharper than the blade itself.

Our hand reaches for
The instrument used only to
Perform the deadliest of melodies
The metallic scratch of metal on metal.
Slowly sharper. Sharper. Sharper.
Filling bellies with the blackest of butterflies
Or beetles, even?

Industrial kitchen lights reflect
Tracing bent beams around the ceiling.
Eventually the knife will find it's victim...
Whether that be us or it.
Whether it leaves us with a bandage
Or a burden.
The purpose of a knife is to slice.