in the dawn sunrise of my kitchen,
i struck wood.
which bled
and revealed itself bone.
standing in naked shock,
as the stark butter knife,
whom i playfully trusted,
had turned its blade.
had i been right to be surprised?
the nature had never hidden itself,
but had always been blatantly there.

the tantalising thought;
the knife was every love that wilted.
warped around the idea of human-like features to characterised metal,
forgetting that i was the one who held it.