My friend brought over a switchblade tonight.

He warned me that it was
sharp.
But it was beautiful.
Black and sleek, like
a wild horse
you're not allowed to get
too close to.

(Or so I've heard. I don't know much
about horses.)

He was playing with it, flicking it
open, sliding it
shut, tempting
fate.
And one time he pressed a button and the blade
swung faster than I could see,
but all of a sudden
steel made love to skin
and then a painful line of
crimson.

It wasn't even the sharp side, it was
the back.
Dull. It should have been
duller.

He made a face.
Went in the bathroom
to clean up.

While he was gone, I picked up the knife
tenderly.
Thinnest pitch
against the palm of my hand. I ran
metal against my fingertips,
over and over again,
the gentlest touch.
Contemplated pressing
harder.

Just to see the scarlet.
Just to hail
a lovely pain,
so close to your heart you can't even
feel it
until you lift the knife,
blade and blood parting ways.

And then I realized
I was too scared.
Not even nervous, just
scared.

(What an ugly word. Scared.)

I put down the switchblade.

He emerged from
the bathroom.
His palm was still bleeding, and so
we parted ways.
He to cleanse his wounds,
and I to cleanse
mine.