Your skin is so smooth.
My fingers trace your gentle curves.
Just the right amount of firm and supple.
I bring you close – you smell of summer, of sunshine.
I smile

The blade of the knife catches the sun as it pierces your skin
I pull downward
Hard
The skin rips.
Wetness drips
From your exposed flesh.

I see what I have done.
I can’t stop myself.
I cut again
Again
and AGAIN.

I tear you apart.
Ignoring the voices of fairness and reason
That might have – should have – stopped me.

My children’s eyes fill with horror as they witness the frenzy.
They plead, “No, Daddy, Stop!”
I turn to them
Dripping knife in hand
“Do you want some of this?”

They shake their heads and back away.

Good.

This last orange is mine.