Folding

If you are innocence, wounded

and I, the only in-hand knife;

why am I bleeding?

why are you safe?

why do you feel strong and smug and right?

how am I the attacker?

when I am the only one that bleeds?

Your NT innocence, a grandiose lie;

cloaked in sacred, plausible deniability.

This social tinsel in which you hide,

from which you stab with secure, vicious glee?

Yours is by far the sharper knife, “friend”,

more so than ever mine will or want to be.