Knife

A knife that insists it is a key 
does not wait for a lock.
It waits for opportunity
then pretends it heard a knock.

It tells the hinge to stop trembling,
and asks metal to feel brave.
It tells the frame to hold steady,
while digging its own grave.

It splinters with precision,
choosing the weakest line to press.
Then treats the crack like prophecy,
and the ruin like success.

It scrapes its edge along the walls,
testing what will yield or bend.
Then marks the plaster with its passing,
as if the room were built to mend.

It seals the break with plaster,
claiming the door preferred this shape.
Then prowls the walls for windows,
eagerly planning its escape.

A knife that insists it is a key
will never understand
why the world keeps hiding its doors.