Still,
I rise.

By the power of God,
I sheath
The knife
That was once pressed
To my neck.

That falls to the floor
With a resounding
click.

Rusting. Tetanus shots. God.

Somehow I saw
Jesus' face in the blade's
Own,
Ruddy red hair and
Scraggly beard.

And.

Voice cleaving through
The darkness—
a whisper.

For the first time in
A while,

He spoke to me.
Still,

I rise.