Cold metal pressed into my palm

Cold metal pressed into my palm,

smooth handle hiding a secret edge.

I held it like a loaded question,

weight shifting, waiting.

The light caught on the blade’s line,

a sharp whisper beneath the skin,

the kind of thing you don’t speak of,

a silence thick with sudden respect.

Hands tight, breath shallow,

I felt the knife’s quiet hunger,

a warning held in a tight fist,

and knew this wasn’t just a tool.

It waited for a slip,

for a moment’s mistake,

and I stepped back,

heart clumsy,

wishing I could put it down,

forget the weight,

but still holding it,

still learning what it means to carry.