Death in the Kitchen.

My hand trembles as I hold you
down onto the table. Your golden
skin gives way to my pressure.
You feel my ill intent, but as I lift the
knife, I am without remorse.
Why is it I, then, whose eyes
sting with tears as the blade
bites into your flesh?

You remain silent. Your
eyes, unseen, see nothing.
 The silver blade breaks
you into slivers, like
new moons. You are
soundless; it is I who
weeps.

The tears sear down
my cheeks and leave me
blind; I have to stop and
wipe them with my
hands. And you,
you're devastated;
nothing left.

You have no bones.

I wash my hands of you.
The blood's not yours, but
mine. A tiny lick the knife
gave to its master. It's
just your scent that
lingers. It will never
leave.

With drying eyes I
scrape up your
scattered remnants,
and pour you,
poor onion,
to scald in the
pan.