“
Before, I let a blade slide itself sharp against me. Look at where I once bloomed red and pulsing. A keloid history. I have not forgotten the knife or that I loved it or what it was like before: my unscarred body visits me in dreams and photographs. Maybelove, I barely recognize it without the armor of its scars.
”
―
―
“
The truth is: I want to hold your hands
because they are like mine. Holding a knife by the blade and sharpening it.
”
―
―
