Knifes Sharp Edge

Cold or warm, wet or dry? An edge that feels no pain in its sharp indifference.Sinister or healing. A scalpel in a surgeons skilled hand. A murderous dagger in the hand of a menacing psychotic. A tool for both. It mocks the surgeons weakness at any unsteady grasp. Ready to bite and tear and slice neccessary vital nerves and sinew. It mocks the murderous hand. Ready to slip backward and cut its user so that pain and evidence of his crimes trickle from his own container in a guilty spill. It dulls in the careless grip of neglect and sharpens in the diligent whetstone of craftsmen. "i do not own a knife," my friend and lover argued. "Ahhh, but you do my love; its your tongue which has pierced my ear." Driven itself deep into my mind and lies protruding from my beating heart."  My knife sliced his throat and left him bleeding wide eyed onto the table that seperated us. The killing wound to all we shared weilded in self defense as i rose and left his presence in finality. He called after me but remained seated not realizing he was already dead to me no matter how his knife danced between his lips. My plan was to be a surgeon. Neccessary cuts to reach and remove cancerous growths. A scalpel so sharp the cut was unfelt and mended quickly when rejoined. Only offering to assist anyone that sought me out by consulting and requesting my expertise. But could i operate on my own cancers. i think not. i searched for and longed for a partner or facility in any field able to train and assist me, trusted enough to heal me of my own maladies. I found incompetence, murderers, and i found specialists in their healing fields. i found myself wondering and wandering through life gleaning and fighting and gaurding my own sharp edge. Never truly included in anothers practice or truly sought out for my own skills. Seeing what i wanted nearby but unavailable in rare individuals discouraged me. Rejection and failure felt like my only university degree. My goals unmet and unpracticed. Comprehending is not application. Better not to know when knowing and futile inability hold hands to the same result. I carrid the memories of the friends and lovers whose absences were brutal deaths and loss. Ended by that final cutting goodbye and finalized by the wires holding the bridge to us being cleanly sliced through as the fell bleeding with the structure. No burial of either and i grieved for them. i grieve for me for without a skilled surgeon, my death is imminant.