A Knife

John Green once said that pain is the destroyer of language. Maybe that’s true.

But even as I stand in the kitchen crying towards my dad,

I can perfectly describe how I feel,

It’s like I have a knife cutting into my chest digging out all of my thoughts

The knife chopping me up, slicing into my soft flesh

My blood spiling across the floor as tears, I sob.

The knife is my self-hatred, my doubt, My Image Of Myself.

It slices who I am, My hopes and dreams slowly destroying me. 

It hurts when who I want to be, shames me for who I am. 

Mocking me, telling me I’ll never be good enough. 

But that’s not where the pain comes from.

The pain comes from the words I yell at my dad. 

The shame I see in his eyes as he thinks he messed up and he failed me.

Even as he can never blame me for my failings because he loves me too much. 

I give him the bloody knife handle first, even as he cuts into himself.

He should hate me, but all he can feel is love. 

I hate myself for making him feel this way. 

The pain doesn’t destroy the words on my tongue, it just makes them sharper, 

Sharp enough to cut.