My pen name is KnivesandTears. Think of me as a culmination of every tear YOU have helped me weep. Think of every tear you have made ALL the women that have crossed your path shed. A salty story told within each drop that falls on my journal. Tears… you can call me Ms. Tears I suppose. The knives you ask, what are they for? Security. Cold, sharp, dangerous tears. Wet, pain-ridden, longing knives. Sharp tears and salty knives. Tears that can slice right through your facade.
You once layed on me and cried for what seemed like hours. You showered me with your tears. They slid down my cheek and onto my bosom. I layed there on the couch, the same couch that later symbolized our demise. I gathered all my strength to refuse you. I lost. We walked hand in hand, tip toeing through the house and to the guest room floor. We made love, so warm and passionate. The warmth subsided as it always does with you and I was left painfully on a hard, cold tiled floor and you fast asleep. A picturesque moment embodying the cold silence of our estranged love affair. There on the cold floor layed out was our fraction of time together, along with the thousands of sharp tears you helped me shed.