Splinters
I have within my possession a wooden spoon. Crafted by my own two hands from an unknown wood, with a large rounded head sanded down to a glass-like countenance and a humorously short handle long enough to grip with one of my small hands.
This spoon is not used for baking or mixing.
My spoon is not used for eating.
I keep it with me always, within close proximity for whenever the need arises.
My spoon is a weapon, I weild it with efficiency wrought by experience.
I do not like my spoon at all, in fact it is an item that I loath.
It is a torturous harbinger to felled lovers, whose open and barren chest cavities are the sole remnants of past loves. Each battle stains the wood and dulls the edge, priming it for future victims. Splinters cut deep into my hand with each use, the scars avoidable reminders that I carry with me.
I fear that in the act of self preservation my own heart will come to resemble my poor, ugly, unfeeling spoon.
This spoon is not used for baking or mixing.
My spoon is not used for eating.
I keep it with me always, within close proximity for whenever the need arises.
My spoon is a weapon, I weild it with efficiency wrought by experience.
I do not like my spoon at all, in fact it is an item that I loath.
It is a torturous harbinger to felled lovers, whose open and barren chest cavities are the sole remnants of past loves. Each battle stains the wood and dulls the edge, priming it for future victims. Splinters cut deep into my hand with each use, the scars avoidable reminders that I carry with me.
I fear that in the act of self preservation my own heart will come to resemble my poor, ugly, unfeeling spoon.