Sharpness filled a grandmother’s life.
Knives and knives and cuts from knives.
A grandfather was a violent man.
He loved…just loved to use his hands.
Their lives were a twisted, violent dance.
A dance of her running.
A dance of him chasing.
A dance of sharpness.
The sharpness of knives.
Flesh opening up and showing white meat.
Flesh opening up, soft as butter.
Cuts under breasts, cuts on stomachs,
Cuts on arms, cuts in hands.
Hands grabbing cuts.
Blades slicing thru air.
Cuts on legs and backs of heels.
Cuts made as you ran ahead.
Cuts in throats, yet all survived.
Maimed and scarred for the rest of their lives.
Grand was obsessed with knives.
Knives in bed.
Knives in the bath.
Knives in drawers
Everywhere to cut you dead.
The legacy of sharpness seemed to never dull.
Even the new wife got her share.
But he got his, as she fought back.
The legacy of sharpness dulled a bit after that.
In that new wife he met his match.