I think of the knife often—
how it must have shined
beneath the low lamplight,
its eager edge,
carving moments
from the relentless ache
of living.

I imagine the world in my palm—
warm, throbbing softly,
as if it still listened—
the wind in wheatfields,
the splatter of paint,
spread thick across canvas,
like a wound.

What did I hope it would say—
did I think it might carry the words
I could never find—
soft-spoken, soothing enough
to prevent a quiet rejection.

I wonder if they understood—
the sounds I had to silence,
how every brushstroke
was an excuse,
too loud to admit.

The fields were alive,
the sunflowers bent toward me
as if drawn to my warmth,
but the sky—
always felt bluer
than my heart could endure.

There is a kindness in the earth,
how it accepts what falls,
takes it all in.
The way it keeps the secret
of every shivering root.

I pondered,
as the blood streaked down my neck—
a rusted ribbon tying me back
to something harsh,
something that could never
leave me behind.

I send my body
into the clouds—
scattered like seeds
beneath the same stars
that refuse to be still.

What is left of me
is what I could not give away—
a hunger so vast,
it can only be seen
in strokes of blue and yellow—
and the light between them.