Edge

It's like walking on the edge of a knife,

Its blade between your big toe

And the one beside it.

The two of them holding on for dear life-

Weak, fragile, but holding up your body

Against the carnage of sharp blades and serrated edges.

They cut deep but draw no blood

They cut lips but elicit no screams

They cut fingers but still leave you mobile

They cut eyelids but still let you sleep

They cut minds but your heart still beats,

Relentless, against the cacophony that threatens to throw off its rhythm

But the rhythm in this house has always been that of a flute

Being played from the wrong end

With palms and fingers covering holes from which breath can escape

And I'm used to it.

My skin ignores it when the knife causes a scar.

It's become used to it.

Tears are not even a part of my eyes' yearly repertoire.

They've become used to it.

Used to being

On edge

Constantly.

The knife threatens to cut right through my feet,

Up my legs, into the sinews and ligaments

Of my thighs,

The corset-like muscles of my sides

And I welcome it

Because I only want it to cut the bonds that form in my heart

And it never will.