Sheathing the Weapon

They didn’t hand me
a weapon—
they let me
absorb it.

Sharpened on silence,
honed on recoil
from glances,
from words
that curled like smoke
but burned like acid.

It was never handed
only endured—
a lesson made flesh
each slice a syllabus.

and I,
craftsman of cruelty,
forged my edge
from the twitch
of someone else's shame.
From the pause
after my own pain
was made public.

I have wielded it,
without drawing
without knowing
until I saw
the mirror wound
on someone I loved.

So now—
this artifact
goes behind glass.
Sheathed in stillness
beside the mallet
that breaks me
when I forget.

etched above it:
in case of emergency—
remember
what this cost you.

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