The folded blade craved my flesh.
No one knew my slender shrieks.
I bolted, mad, to the evening heat,
and hid in the blue of the juniper bush,
hushed the tears, so he wouldn’t hear.
He took my waist, tucked me hard
between his legs, rendered a finger
from my fist, held me fast around the wrist.
My skin opened, but did not bleed,
and spit the splinter like a melon seed.
I'll never forget screaming as my grandfather chased me with his pocket knife, and how it didn't hurt when he pressed the open blade flat against my finger.
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