The Knives of Ordinary Days

A poem

The featured image was created by the author using Canva and Picsart.

I am sliced open
by morning’s dull edge,
the clock’s hands gnaw at my bones,
grinding them into hours —
each second a confession.

I am small,
folded into corners,
a woman
tucking away her rage
like old photographs
yellowing in forgotten drawers.

The streets swallow me,
gray mouth of concrete,
where voices sharpen
like knives.

I wear this skin like a lie,
every bruise a word
I never meant to say,
but said
anyway.

In the mirror,
I am raw —
stripped of softness,
the truth, like blood,
won’t clot.