The Sharpest Knife

It cuts through almost everything, stopping in but the one thing, revealing the apparently impenetrably solid to be soft, and spread away at will:

The judgments and expectations of others

That the personal is unprofessional at work

The existence of preexisting, conflicting relations

The looming wedding, the plans for family

The age difference, surpassing a decade

The socioeconomic circumstances of class

The psychological games played around it

The cutting misery of its unrequited wishes

All the words and worries and tactics it whittled into its block

Everything that everyone said and did to try to dull and deflect it

All of the arrogant antagonizations condescended to me as if absolute

The knife cut straight through them as it would warm butter, revealing what’s claimed to matter more than it to be immaterial illusions; preventative preconceptions proven pretend.

It made mincemeat of everything said to oppose its will, dicing them up as if they weren’t there.

This knife that just as readily passed through my chest, stuck and stayed, forever lodged in the one sanctified place that captured and set it in stone.