On The Outside Looking In

I’m cold, without heart or soul, void of spirit, only a visible, tangible weapon, or friend to someone in need. I’m sure tonight Perkins will clean me up, as he always does. Perhaps he will sharpen my blade, honing it to a razor sharp edge, holding my handle with his cold hands. I do a good job, and I know I’m appreciated. We work well together . . . but I can’t deny that he’s been talking to himself a lot lately.

Some nights as I lay on the table, I hear him scream out and sometimes cry in bed. Sometimes he scribbles on the walls with a magic marker. Sometimes he holds me close to his heart, asking me if I can look inside of him, and take out "what’s wrong."