And as the day approaches
the knife slowly corkscrews
its way through your heart.
and though we can see the effects,
the pain that threatens to swallow everything,
we cannot see the knife anymore.
You cannot see the knife anymore.

We stand by helplessly
unable to do anything
but watch its path and the holes it leaves
and watch you grapple with yourself
while still holding the knife.
Sometimes by the handle.
Sometimes by the blade.
We cannot see the knife anymore.
You cannot see the knife anymore.

The knife digs its way deeper with each day
and we don't know if the holes
are there because of the knife
or if the knife is there
to fill the holes.
We cannot see the knife anymore.
You cannot see the knife anymore.

It has grown into a part of you
So much that your silhouettes
Have melded and you have rebuilt yourself
Around it.
You do not know who you would be without it.
You like yourself with the sharp tang
of fresh blood
rather than the complacent scabs
of healed wounds.

I know all this and yet
Given the chance
I would draw out
the knife.