You ran the knife along your arm
until the plastic cut your paper skin.
As I pulled it from your grasp
you asked why
the pain and guilt
gleaming in your eyes
and I noted as I looked at you,
that plastic knives can cut too.

You never said you were fine.

I mentally compared
your arm to mine
holding back tears because
I was too angry to cry

The half cross you bear now
made me furious
because there was nothing I could do
to change it.
You'd gotten to far along
without intervention.

And I took responsibility.
It felt like my fault.
Like the wound was on my arm,
and I poured in the salt.

I'm sorry.
You deserve more than the faint scar