in the corner of his room, sits a little boy
and in his hands, a pocket knife
he turns it in his hands
too young to know what he holds
too young to know how to use it
he inspects it, holds it close to his eyes
interpreting every scuff, every scratch
he holds it up to his nose
the smell of metal fills his lungs
stings his throat
its cold hard shell sits gently in his hands
light in weight heavy in purpose
he flips it some more, swift as a bird, the blade swipes his palm and cuts his hand open
he throws the knife, afraid of its power
he looks at the blood as it runs down the side of his hand
this boy, only 7, has already felt the pain of this world
but something about it
its shape, its size
its black tar colour
calls to him
pulls him in
and with every ounce of curiosity he picks it back up
he twirls it in his hand
he looks at his hand and cuts it once again
this time harder
deeper.
alone in the corner of his room, sits a little boy
and in his hands, a pocket knife.