First Cut

I gripped the cold steel, uncertain,

the weight like a silent warning

pressed into my palm.

The kitchen light flickered,

a dull hum overhead,

a thin line of red split my skin —

sharp as the sudden understanding.

Not just a tool,

but a fragment of something more:

power, danger, a quiet claim

etched in the flesh.

Blood thinned and hesitated,

beneath the dull blade’s edge,

a quiet pulse, a quick retreat —

I held the knife and felt its edge

against my own small fear,

learning the first cut’s harsh truth,

a lesson in control and loss,

smooth, yet jagged, like a rusted door.

Still it rests,

waiting beside the worn board,

a whisper that never quite fades away.