foreignistic

5 ft Catastrophe

­­­­­In a world of arbitrary items

People often mistake me for a

Humble butter knife.

And I am very, very bad

At prefacing the evening

With a warning sign (I almost never do it)

The result is men will grip

Me carelessly

And press me to their skin, not expecting

It to hurt.

And when I come away drawing blood,

They act shocked

And betrayed, but didn’t anyone ever teach you

Not to play

With knives?

I have a serrated side.

The metal in me is jagged, and

Unforgiving, and

I have been known to slice through things

Much thicker than bread.

The truth is

I am afraid to tell people

About the cobra in me.

That you can hold me like a garden snake, but eventually

I will coil and strike.

In the moment, I am all claws

And snapping teeth

But the second the door shuts behind you,

I dream I am

More rose than thorn,

More feather than boa.

That the right hands

Will know how to wield 

Napoleon’s sword

When they see it.