No, I don’t mind making the sandwiches for the picnic—it’s strangely satisfying to slice the cheddar
for your Ploughman’s using the same knife I hack at my wrists with, the one I keep hidden
up my sleeve on days when I’m not safe in my own skin, the one I sleep with on nights when you’re away
and I don’t trust my own heartbeat, the one I reach for when I need clarity to shine through the insanity,
with its unfailing black handle and mirrored serrated blade, that I grip and use to jab and twist
when I need to feel Something other than This—honestly, it’s no problem!
I don’t mind making the sandwiches at all.
Originally published in VERSIFICATION ZINE (December 2021) here.
Treacle Heart 