The blade sits calmly on the counter,
unperturbed, reflecting the soft kitchen light.
Its edge whispers a shimmering suggestion,
like a moth brushing your wrist in twilight.
You’re ten minutes deep into a kaleidoscope,
where colors swell and collapse like waves,
and suddenly the world seems breakable,
its pieces oddly arranged, illogically bright.
A voice—your own—enters the silent room,
asking, what is a body if not soft clay?
The walls breathe in parallel with your lungs,
and the world hums its sinister lullaby.
You see how easily the air might tear,
how veins could unzip with little effort,
and laughter seems to spill over everything,
but there’s no one else in this magenta room.
The knife, steady as an ancient mountain,
becomes a question your mind won\'t answer.
Everything slows to a dream\'s molasses crawl,
and hands shake but also seem kind, distant.