The Blade

I was born, little babe, with a blade clutched in my hands

I grew up with the bladem sharpened it.

Let beads of blood spill when my thumb pressed the tip.

"Please," I cried one day,

"The knife, it hurts me! I want nothing more than for it to grow dull with disuse."

"Then let me have it, dear son," You spoke, "I shall keep it safe."

And I did, thinking it would keep me safe.

I did not see how, by night, you took the blade to the grindstone and sharpened it, growing stronger as you prepared.

I did not realize why you stood behind me until the daggar was taken to my throat,

Until I wore a necklace of rubies, and left you satisfied,

As I had to be like you, or I had to be dead.

And we both knew I would never be like you.