The Butcher's Knife

By Rishan Roy

The butcher’s knife stands still, 

Within folds of carcasses, a green mold grows,

Insipid green of disgust,

I keep at, craving the serrated edge of pain,

When his hand rises, swinging in slow motion,

But he skips me, like I am seventeen, and asking to be loved,

Fifteen, and I find my letters in the school bin,

Thirteen, and I could not hold a razor against my jaw,

Eleven, and everyone is choosing their playmates,

Nine, and my father stands on the threshold of our moss-covered house,

Leaning slightly on the worn doorframe,

In a similar memory, I find my flesh tear from the kins I have known,

My green reaches my insides, 

The more I resist, the more it grips, until it becomes me,

Or perhaps, me it,

I see him love with his knife

Covered in the stench of my new home, I can barely smell him,

Cellophane covered waste bin,

I watch, fingers separating flesh from bone so tender 

And like an afterthought, I’m left to rot,

Never satiating his hunger, while he consumes entirety of mine. 

By Rishan Roy