I looked in the kitchen drawer
Never to touch, for that would
Forever leave me begging for
A mercy I know I shall not receive.
I always waited until my mother was gone,
For fear of my "new-found" fascination
And reverence of the knives that lay asleep
In their plastic wells, their beds,
Would spark some suspicion.
That she'd see that something wasn't right.
For there was something most definitely wrong.
A trembling hand stretches forth,
Almost of its own accord.
Fingers twitching, sweat glistening
Like the blade of the knife in the light.
And I snap out of the reverie,
The intake of breath
Like lightning through my body -
Slam shut the drawer and run.
I later hear them laughing,
A too-high, too-sweet laugh.
They know they'll have me yet.