Now, This is a Knife
I cling to a magnet,
Just above the old red scrub-brush
Reflecting sullenly upon my actions of the past day,
Still dripping with the blood of your victims.
You rip me harshly from my waiting-place,
Hand clenching my throat, mercilessly, wrenching and
I scream in protest, quietly, with a shrill scraping that pierces the air about me.
Your victim hears.
I can see it, on the board, round and alert, swelling with fragrant vitality--
You take me, shove me inside,
Into its cold, moist heart, with a twist
And withdrawing, shearing what was not broken
On the first pass--
I am drenched in the gore of this innocent
Its life slipping like raindrops along my gleaming edges.
(From my 11th grade English class...)