What I'm Holding
by Cass Madden
· 16/01/2026
Published 16/01/2026 11:26
The blade catches the bathroom light
and there's rust,
just a thin stain,
a reminder that months passed
since I cared enough
to use it.
Someone made a comment
at lunch today.
About my arms.
About letting go.
I laughed.
I do that.
I laugh when I'm supposed to.
Now I'm standing here
at 11pm
with this old thing
in my hand,
holding it like it's supposed
to explain something,
like it's supposed
to be
a reason
or a choice
or anything
other than what it is,
which is just
a tool
I forgot about
in a drawer
under the sunscreen,
under the dust,
under the part of my life
where I stopped
paying attention
to small things.
The rust says
I've been careless.
The rust says
I haven't thought about
this particular detail
in a very long time.
The rust says
maybe the comment
was right.
I'm standing in the bathroom
at 11pm
and I don't know
what I'm supposed to do
with this information,
with this blade,
with the fact that someone noticed
the general state
of not trying.
I put it back
in the drawer.
I close the drawer.
I leave the light on.
I'm not ready
for the dark.