The Spoon

A spoon sits in the warmth of my palm Its incandescent sheen flitting through the darkness Edges ribbed and sharp like a knife My finger traces the speck of each point The electricity of “almost” buzzing through the junctions of empty And as my fingers gingerly trace the beauty of danger I bleed A red cherry drops from the tree Gushing, blooming, alive. More fall, one bigger than the other Dropping silently into the basket I placed so many years ago My breath falls as storm clouds darken The trees shake and moan as Atlas drops the weight upon them And lightning finally breaks Bouncing through each nerve in my brain Setting myself on fire. I stand holding this weapon This spoon of many talents Talents like drawing fruit from midair From drawing lightning from storm clouds. With two hands I plunge it into my chest Carving, scrubbing, sobbing Until all that bleeds in my hands are you The memories of you The happiness of you. All that bleeds are the broken dam of lust The red dripped glaze of dark eyes and hooded hearts I have carved out the piece of me that was you And I bleed free.