Most of the time you don’t see it coming.
Almost all of the time you don’t feel it right away.
The cut is usually so clean,
so precise and so direct,
that it takes you time to feel what’s actually happened.
Initially its a stab.
It makes your throat catch, your breath slow,
your eyes swell with salty tears that burn;
followed by a deep slice through.
The edge sharpened by lies; each lie a pass across the whetstone.
Each corrosion in the knife created from a truth omitted,
catching on every memory.
“Please don’t cut me again,” I plead.
“I’m still healing from the last time.”
From a knife of the most dangerous kind.