what knives want
Sharp knives in the kitchen drawer. Snicker snack. They sing in high voices, crimson and silver. I have my hand on the drawer, my back pressed against my hand.
I want what knives want.
His trainers are luminous white, and his fists are white, too; the bones of his knuckles push against his skin. He steps towards me, fists roaring, eyes wide.
Knives sing in sharp harmonies, a metal symphony, a chorus of desire. Open the drawer and out they will fly, up over our heads, to rain down upon us in a piercing storm.
Advertisement
Like this:
One blogger likes this post.
Reno said,
April 26, 2011 at 5:08 pm
I always feel like I’ve been given a piece of candy when you post something. Your writing is so refreshing for me to read! I especially like the final paragraph.
thebeardedlady said,
April 30, 2011 at 1:11 pm
Hi Reno! Thanks very much
I’m trying to get back into the habit of posting these more often, but life is always busy these days…