Woman becomes blade. Woman becomes something sharp,
something you’ll think twice before running your hands over.
Woman becomes cold steel, because maybe if she is threat
she is no longer target.

You do not blame a sword for how it is sharpened, how if it
is wielded in the wrong hands it can wound. Still you say this
is no way to live. As if your sharpened teeth and hidden claws
do not bear the same weight.

You say this is no way to live. As if you alone could melt
her winter heart and metal bones. She will not bend to your
will, no matter how she loves you so. She will not soften her
edges into a coffin. She will not become your final resting place.

If monsters aren’t born, then what am I?
I suppose I am an aftermath of sorts, the result of something crumbling.
My mind is crumbling
and I wonder how long have I been losing this battle.
My thoughts are a switchblade, they know how to hide their sharpness,
they know how to slice me open just as easily.
And oh, to think how much I can bleed from a sharpness that is my own.