Knife blade sharp and warm. Glow red hot from the fire. Be my ward. Angled defensively and bared outwards. Mark the boundary of my space. Tell the spirits where to stop, where flesh ends and pain begins. Promise me the safety I never had. Sharp thing, thing beauty. Know that I love you for what you are.
You're my little defensive mechanism, the needle through the fabric of relationships. My knife is my lack of trust. My little blade is my little wall. I keep it sharp and I keep myself sharp to match. Together, we'll slice as one. Hand in hand. Calmly grip the leather. Comfortable. Old. It molds to my hand. It molds to my soul. It stands in representation. The darkness creeps in at the edges, so I stoke the fire higher, send sparks flying.
We're burning down the world tonight. The stars above are right. Gentle. Peaceful. I'll roll them between my fingers, dreaming of days when I could read them. The messages come in languages forgotten and arcane. Just me and my blade versus the depths of the universe. Cut and cut. Knowledge is about cutting truth from lies. The separable state of understanding. True wisdom.
Blade out, blade up. Foot back, scraping in the dust. Cobwebs on the walls. Fire is burning down. Soon, embers. Quiet. Just a faint crackling, a faint hissing. Another log, another lick of flame. Grin. Feel your teeth with your tongue. Run a hand along your cheek, the stubble still there, still sharp. Feel the cuts that drip blood. Feel the comfort of the blade in your hand. Drag your feet. Stalk through shadows. Silence your doubts. No heavy thoughts. Nothing but the fire.
Match the motion. The way the flame lick the sky is intoxicating. It's all the same thing. It's all part of the world. It's hot air flowing up and out. If butterflies can cause hurricanes, what devastation can I wreak? The blade is sharp and the night is soft, cut in two by gentle probing strokes. It is as an old friend. Fingers down my back. Kisses at my nape. If you listen carefully, you can hear them howl.
They need the way they want. They want the way they need. I'm one of them from a past life. I've done the impossible. I've taken which doesn't belong to me. I've died.
There aren't any logs left. The fire's getting real low. I'm getting shaky too. The blade dims slowly, white fading to red. The sun peaks over the mountains, the clouds threatening to break. Just embers now. Just silence. It crackles in the corner of my mind. They're bold. They're not afraid. Wild strikes go asunder. Flailing blades miss soft targets. Exposed bellies laugh with joy and arms turn me away. Spin for the dance. Feet scrape patterns in the dust. Step, step, forwards and back. Don't forget to smile. Don't forget to feel the heat in your back.
Burning muscles betray the failing. Aches set in. Chills too. The blade is cold, so cold. It threatens to shatter should it hit anything. The weaving pattern finds empty spaces. It's a complex dance to not cut anyone. The space is so full now. You're surrounded by them. They jostle in closely, hands on your shoulders. They pull your hips as they sway with you, matching the motion. Your hand stretches upwards, the blade almost invisible in the early morning darkness. You hide it because you don't want anyone to know.
No one can know.
But her lips are meeting yours and her hand is on your cheek. You pull her in close, one hand on her back, blade flat. You pull and pull because she's soft and delicate. You're stumbling through the crowd. Over the ashes. Under the bridge. Too many. Too few. Tear the sun from the sky and give me but a few moments more. The dance is too delicate.
You feel it coming before it happens. The log shifts. Balance lost. The blade is hungry. The blade needs to feed.
For all that talk, the blood brings nothing but silence. No recriminations. No regrets. Was it worth it? Do you deserve it?
Build your bonfire high tonight. Keep that blade loud. The lights add to the dance. It's all part of the game. You'll see her again. She'll have a knife too, then.