I find myself with a knife.
My path is sand, broiled by the sun.
A sleek, solid carving knife.
The edge as keen as sudden thought, as cruel remark.
I never wanted such a blade.
I have not chosen this path for myself.
Sand that burns my feet, sand that sears, to the point of weeping.
In reason, and not in panic, there are times when death is not a mercy;
because death is not truly the end.
It is facing the consequences of your life.
Facing Him. Instead,
a desire for sheer annihilation; for the blissful mercy of never having existed.
Take great care.
To press down on this blade is to slice the skin, for blood to instantly bloom and spread.
To walk on this sand is to burn the soles of your feet, to scald, to torch.
So if I must, I rest my finger on the edge, but I never, ever press.
And I run. I run across the burning sand. Feet in flight will not rest on fire.
A blade, but do not press.
Sand, but do not linger.
by Genevieve Cunningham