You have edges too sharp to touch without gloves
And I never had the need for gloves before,
I’d held throwing knives between my teeth and called them my friends,
held machetes at arms length, called them family
used Scimitars as my teachers
But I’d never shared my bed with my blade before you,
I know you never really meant to cut me,
But I can’t explain away these scars to my lovers anymore.
You are made of nights of video games and music,
of showing up at my house at 10 at night and romancing my mother into thinking you are perfect.
She hates my partner who has never laid their edges on me, but thinks you are the perfect roman sword, that you will take down armies, you’ll give me dynasties on our wedding day
She asks when you’ll come around again, I tell her eventually you’ll be back
That you’ll raise an army,
I never tell who your army will be fighting.


It took three years to draft the plans
To forge a blade that rivaled your beauty.
You are a titanium oxynitride coated body I found by my bedside one night,
left behind by a boy trying to outrun dresses, to melt himself from a military issue P-38 Can Opener to his own pocket Knife,
You taught me that boys are pocket knives.
They have edges dulled over the years by parents,
rust spots that make them different and beautiful, but less deadly
Most are safe until you find yourself in a back alleyway with that creepy boy from your favorite bar holding himself to your throat,
But your mother built you different,
Only ever meant for small tasks,
she forged you as something to be used sparingly,
she thought it would protect you.
But you’ve got a broken spring,
it looks like a four-year-old's slinky and I thought I could fix it.
I thought I could make you better,
but you’ve got a locking mechanism too faulty to promise my safety.

Everyone told me it was my fault,
that a person should never sleep with a weapon, it’s begging to get cut.
I thought they were right.
Told myself if I was my own blade i couldn’t get cut because no one else would want to share a bed with me.
I built myself with a better locking mechanism than you,
A custom one I designed in my lonely workshop, told myself I’d never cut someone I loved.
But I’m thinking of her.
Her blonde hair and blue eyes, a color that haunts my dreams.
Scar covered and war torn
The strongest heart I’ve ever held
I didn’t mean to cut her,
But me and her, we are matching blades,
I tried to teach her to love her steel and it worked
She still calls me on weekends
tells of her new weapon,
a beautiful new blade made out of understanding and wonder,
Tells me she wishes we’d worked out,
that we were not matching blades, but a set.
But I’ve learned better,
You can not make sets out of blades made of people
You can only pair with yourself.

I’ve learned that pocket knives grow into blades longer than my forearms,
Pocket knives can grow up into swords meant to protect, not just harm
And now I hang swords on my wall,
keep them on my contact list,
Know they will pick me up at midnight in the middle of nowhere when I’m scared of another Pocket knife.
I will share my bed with them, and try not to cut them with my own twisted metal skeleton.