I melt into a knife.

I
melt into a sharp knife
and stab in the dark
And I am a self conscious knife
and undoubtedly questions emerge
is there a purpose to my life?
sitting pretty in the cutlery
or be driven through a heart
the pulp of tomatoes
or haemoglobin?
the red is washed off in the sink
the red dries off after a while
and isn’t nearly as exciting
I have thought and thought
and I guess both get monotonous after a while.

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