I Never Told Anyone (Except My Therapist)

I standin the kitchen.

On the counter

I imagine a scene.

I grab a sharp knife,

gleaming to a point.

Instead of the meat

from the groceries

I cut into the raw flesh

of my arm.

I jam it

again and again

until there is nothing

but minced meat —

a red, peachy dish

I tell myself

would finally bring me love,

the spectacle

my pain rehearses.

But instead

I am standing

in front of the fridge,

putting away fresh feelings,

as you wrap your tender arms

around my heart

and melt in your embrace.

Is it betrayal,

to reveal,

the sharp point hovering,

just there,

behind the curtain

of that stage?