The Boiling Point
04 Nov 2010 Leave a Comment
I strengthen my resolve.
It will be painful
But I have to do it.
And time is running out.
It almost reaches its boiling point.
I grab the knife.
And hold it tightly.
Clinging on it for dear life.
I know you won’t surrender without a good fight.
I have known you all my life.
At the count of three
I strike your belly.
Slowly, I push the knife deeper.
I smell your resistance, your fear.
It overwhelms me.
But I love its scent.
Liquid is oozing from the wound.
And right then and there, you strike back.
I am anticipating it,
but I’m still caught by surprise.
The pain–
It’s blinding.
I close my eyes tightly
but not before the tears
start escaping from the two deep pools.
But I have to endure it. I need to.
I make another cut.
Slicing you.
And then another.
I saw your gut
White.
(This is where I draw the line)
Mine is dark red,
verging on purple.
Probably, black.
But I am white outside.
As white as your gut.
I hear someone calls my name
and says something.
I am so engross contemplating
my gut and yours that I barely hear it.
“Is the onion ready? The water is already boiling.”
I wipe my tears.
