The Knife that Cuts the Bark.

Staring at the heart you carved
And the rusting blade that lies on the damp grass.
You had left, and as promised I have more to say.
I pleaded, I finished with a please, still staring then, that it will become complete
But wonder how?

Hesitantly I crawl on two feet
To lift the blade that melts to your shape,
It is cold as I brush a finger over it; I shiver inwardly;
It reminds me of your leaving.
I strive to conclude that heart
But the knife is too heavy and too cold to warm your bark.

I’d always seen you holding the knife.
Against the bark and above my heart.
My line of vision changes; bark melting into skin
I am before you now; quiet and supple.
I circle you to your back.
And I am standing there where you once were and I see all sides of myself;
I hold the knife better than it ever fit in your hand, its rust spreading, taking over my restrain.

It was never that my skin was too soft or the bark too dampened
which is why you cut me so easily.
My skin though scraped and bruised by your hands
Is fine. But it was never you in control of the knife, nor my skin or bark underneath.
The heart is incomplete because mine is the wrong knife for the job
And miscalculate your bark; my attempts leave no lasting impression.
Yes, you have harmed me. Yes, my constant scratching irritates you.