There she is; the sharp knife.
Sitting as a queen, this sharp knife.
Giving my fingers a hungry grin, oh! this sharp knife.
Waiting to have them in her custody once more.
One taste of my blood is not enough,
She wants more of the juicy red goodness,And she won’t spare me, not even once.
As I dice the carrots, as I slice the onions,
As I cut the oranges…
She takes the opportunity to imprint her signature of bloody bruises,
Leaving behind her marks for my mama to behold.
She’s crude, and she shows me no mercy.
She would chop my fingers off if she had the chance, I can almost hear her say.
I’m frustrated, but I’m not left in despair,
Because I know that time will not only heal my bloody fingers:
Gradually but surely, time will take away her sharpness,
And she will mellow back into the shelves, too embarrassed to come out .
I cannot wait, I cannot wait,
Till the sharp knife becomes blunt and loses her pride.