when you leave

you won't be knifing me
with it
too self-possessed, and
kind. you'd be the type
to cry more
than i would. i save
the bawling, for later
when i think no one
can hear.
no, you have no knife in this scene,
the owner of the blade is me -
turning it over and over
in my fingers, walking along
its razor-sharp edge
with my mind, trying
to spot its flaw.
sometimes
i watch you while
i fumble around my
sharp metal,
collecting
"paper"cuts.
i'm planning
and preparing. i'm not a fool,
this one's easy
to spot coming.
you'll fade away,
and, alone,
i'll peruse my body
for the best place
to stick that blade.