I was dicing an onion on a plastic board

I was dicing an onion on a plastic board,

the air getting heavy with the sting of the juice.

My mind was adrift, a frayed, snapping cord,

letting the silence of the apartment go loose.

The blade slipped an inch, a quick, silver slide,

then stopped where the skin meets the bone of my hand.

I felt the cold weight of the steel start to guide

a thought that I didn't yet quite understand.

It wasn't a tool for a soup or a stew,

but a sharp, heavy choice held tight in my grip.

I looked at the edge and I finally knew

how easy it is for a life to just slip.