HOW TO SHARPEN A KNIFE

A guide to devotion (or, at least, my own)

Sometimes you get so close to someone that you can only see them clearly if you close your left eye while squinting your right one. Sometimes you get so close to someone that you actually can’t see them at all; your eyes have been closed for too long and sleep has crusted into your tear ducts, glued your waterline shut. Last night I dreamt of violence, both at the hands of men and of her. I took the punches like something tender. When I awoke I wished for any semblance of a bruise. She taunted, tugged at frayed edges. Blunt in her recollection: I was promised devotion. I no longer had the evidence to retaliate with, there was no burning flesh. Back in the heart of winter I called it religious, inherently masochistic; she asked me if I really enjoyed it.

Ardent, obedient. A good girl who knows how to take it. Prayer is the in between, the first slow blinks while you adjust to sunlight in the morning. Devotion is an act of observance. The same way that creation is born from detail. Or, simply, to be loved is to be seen.

It was a sterile building. We were taught to give a number. I thought that we could only use our ten once and mine was long gone. I often settled on sixes, low enough to slide by, high enough to not be a complete lie; that felt like a sensible choice at the time. There was a scale, you see, and we each had to create our very own. Self-explanatory: 1 was none, 10 was completely undone. You had to find your in-betweens. It became a numbers game and I thought I had cracked the code. If I ate seven bites of my sandwich and waited thirty minutes I would get a checkmark. If I talked in four out of the eight groups they would give a nod. I pissed forty milliliters into their plastic cups once a week. I paid attention, I did as I was told.

My grandfather finds a rabbit’s foot on the porch, he has to kneel down slowly to press it into his palm. I tell him it’s good luck and he says he’s saving me some. It dries in his kitchen next to the wishbones and I want to know how the fur stays on. When my scale reached the unbearable ten we sat side by side, my grandfather and I, under the fluorescent lights. He was tapping his foot, a rhythmic substitution. I saw her by accident; the curtain was thin and not flush against the wall to begin with. She looked blue but that could’ve just been the reflection. I spent the rest of the year wondering how much she’d decomposed, what stage of decay; but, really, I just wanted to know what remained. It’s been said that death only lasts a moment, but were her red fingernails overgrown? How long did the stamp from her glasses stay on her nose? They used to tell me it killed the cat, like it was a joke— but I wasn’t curious, I knew I was a witness.

Gurgle, hard to swallow. Opium melts on my tongue. How does it feel to no longer choke me down? To clear your throat, your lungs? Surrendering, sitting in your jaw, clenched. You’re turning in my stomach and I don’t quite know where we go wrong. Absence disciplines me. When God wishes to penetrate a soul he starts by abandoning it completely.

I notice the warmth then the stark contrast of the color against my skin. It crawled at first, it made a trail before dripping onto the bathroom floor, staining the mat— it seemed unsure. Then it pooled, flooded. I’m doubling down, laughing at the gashes and the gore. Is it time to give more? I’m sharpening the knife and typing out, but not sending, one word: Goodnight.