Knifed

A poem about some kinds of love

Your knife wasn’t sharp enough, love.

With a sharp knife surprise comes first, pain later
No, this was a deadened, dulled knife that
you shoved violently into my soft fleshy trust,
the force in direct proportion to the bluntness

Like hammer and chisel, you needed the heft
for the blunted tip to pierce through. No, you were
not satisfied with a mere surface scratch, no,
It had to rip my innards to ribbons, love?

I remember your cool, calm, pleasant exterior,
as I drowned in tears, love. Red hot tears,
and I realized you could only be whole
when I was finally in pieces.

And so, I gave in, love.
I broke apart.

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