maryjanebane

When my mother sees a paring knife she thinks, "vegetables". I see a quill. My father has carried a pocket knife ever since I can remember. Splinter removal and clean fingernails. I see pain relief, medication for my aching head. Dribbling or splashing on the ground, those livid emotions waken me, startle me to life. In its shine, my upside down relflection, smiles. My breathing returns, dark clouds part in the sunshine glinting off the perfect, stciky blade.

Her mound is cold. Dirty fingernails stark against the white flesh of her belly. A flutter of steam exhales from blood-red lips. An eternity has passed, or so it seems, since a twinkle of light fell across her prone body. Suddenly like a thousand butterfly wings warm tendrils caress her hair, spikey eyelashes flutter under the weight. Hot breath from an unexpected kiss stirs her flesh-white hot points rise in recognition. A solid form takes shape abover her shivering skin, feminine in nature, Love come home. A flutter of eyelids and she's face to face with all she has dreamed, hope renewed, and a saving warmth from within

You were awfully quick with the shears. I saw her, you know, as I hovered there. Perfectly pink, perfectly formed. Perfectly flawed. A miracle, really. Remember you said so, you said in a whisper, "Miracle". Now. Look what you've done. Her sunken eyes tell me the story I need to know. Perfect petals dry in the trash. Tears or blood drain unnoticed collecting in your jar of shame. Her smile resembles the gory wound you left. Open. Festering. Hidden. Try as she might joy escapes her. I wish I could hold her but I know, you're watching. You prune with impudence. She lies quietly trembling as  I cower overhead.