The Artist’s Brush


She counts on me to paint her body.
I feed off blood because it's the only thing she's ever given me.
Others seem happy their ridges carve apple slices or bread.
My ridges expose spots of blood.
I want to stay in the drawer with the knives and the forks.
She's turning me into a monster.
I am no longer for chopping.
I am now for slicing skin into shapes.
Why can't she count on me to slice tomatoes or lettuce?
When she cleans me she uses an old rag removing the sin from my body.
But the next day she's at it again.
I found myself falling to the floor and hiding underneath the stove.
When she SWeeps she finds me.
She points my head at her thigh and suddenly I feel like I am
in a game of poker.
The game becomes too rich for my blood.
I fall to the floor and my handle breaks.
I do not think this will stop her because
she's determined to bleed.
I'm ashamed of wanting her blood, but it's
the only thing she's ever given me.

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