He walks with me.
Walks quietly.
Foot behind mine.

At first I trip, without him touching me, somehow.

He is unease, and his knife is jagged and roughly made.

For all his poise and skill, he cannot stop it from lovingly grazing my throat every so often. It happens when I think… back. What if. Hesitate.

But the knife is not his only weapon – it’s just for show.

His true proficiency is wringing out
the core of your soul
and watching it unfold.

---

Needed a new journal page, and this is too crappy to post up anywhere. Typed on an sms after an exam; heaven help me and my need for creative balance.