The knife glints under the dim bulb,
its silver tongue whispering
how easy it would be
to open what aches inside me.

I brace my hand,
press down slowly,
feel the skin split,
hear the soft tear,
watch red bloom
across the board
in trembling pools.

I cut again, and again,
shards falling like thoughts
I can’t keep straight,
my breath coming faster,
the smell rising sharp,
green and raw,
like the earth itself.

I tell myself
this isn’t what it looks like,
though it feels like release.
All this mess,
all this red,
all this trembling,
only
vegetables.