I thought I had a thousand words
Folded, like cranes, to gift you
My mouth cannot make their shapes,
They taste of regret, which
Unsettles me, you
Once as familiar to me as
The veins that decorate my
Wrists that I offered you, soft,
Meatless and vulnerable, I
Handed you a cunning blade and
Prayed you would not cut too deeply, or
Too casually, with disregard, I
Took my time in concluding that
A weapon must be passed, with
The blade turned inward, toward
The one who would be wounded most harshly, were they
To stumble and fall upon the cutting edge of trust.