As a Knife
He doesn’t use me very often; he doesn’t quite have the heart to. When he is cornered, when he is scared and I can feel him breathing hard. I think he finds comfort in the way I am sharp, the way I can make a crowd go back like Moses splitting the sea. But I am almost always in his pocket, almost always hidden away because really, he still is a little boy behind his mask.
He still has never gone to jail, has never been caught. Close calls, though, come often for us. More often danger comes in the form of groups of men, shapes in the moonlight. That is when he needs me most, and sometimes I come out. When I come out, my brothers and sisters tend to come out as well. I have only been wet two times; the first was when he ran away from home, then tears, the second was years later at night, then blood.
The night is when we are both awake. He has learned how to be stealthy, like a fox. I can barely feel him moving anymore from inside his pocket. He likes to take from the houses of the rich, far away from his old house. Since he ran away, he has never come back.
We sleep in alleys, or parks, hidden places where he thinks no one can find him. Perhaps I am his only friend, if you could call me that. He is a thief. I am his knife.