Utensils

I look at my heart

placed so carefully

upon the porcelain plate.

Same place as always

with only one new addition.

Utensils stick out,

angles odd and sharp.

Piercing through muscle

and leaving vessels broken.

Blood seeps out—

slowly forever.

Some are old.

A fork from my childhood

and a steak knife

from my freshman year. 

Many scatter the sack

of flesh that is

left of my heart.

The newest knife is the largest.

It digs the deepest

and brings the most pain.

Yet I stand in my dining room

with a fresh table setting,

placing each utensil

carefully and kindly.

Ready for the next person

who sits down

at my plate, hopeful

that they will be the one

who treats it right.