First Cut

The blade was cold, a sharp silver line

that slipped once—thin red blooming slow.

The metal wasn’t just cold, it was hungry,

a secret waiting beneath my fingers.

The cut stung, a sharp whisper of pain,

a language I hadn’t learned,

etched in blood and sudden heat.

I held the knife like a question,

a moment poised between fear and control,

knowing then that power isn’t soft,

that a blade is both tool and threat,

the cold edge of something real.