I sharpen the knife, slice the fruit.
The juice slicks my hands, slight sting.
I say yes when asked, no never—
or always, but my mouth wields steel.
Each step forward carves a line,
each word settles heavy as stone.
I sweep the floor, pick up shards,
I lay the table, spine upright, aware.
What I feel, it burns and fades.
I watch it, unopened letters, floating by.
What I think scatters like ash,
a wind-blown ghost of intention.
But what I do—place bread, clean hinge,
place hand on shoulder, press it firm—
this I leave behind, thick root,
my shadow planted, my only self.