First understanding of the blade

That cold steel, heavy in my hand,

the rough handle biting my palm.

I watched the edge catch kitchen light—

not sharp like a promise,

but sharp like the crack of a breaking line.

Carrot slices waiting, uneven,

a small harvest cut by uncertain fingers.

It was not just a tool—

but a weight

carried in flesh and bone,

a thing that could carve or crack,

break or feed.

I paused, breath caught between

skin and metal,

learning that to hold a knife

is to hold a story,

somewhere between power and fear.