Knives

It all started with a knife. My mother had a C-Section and I was born. The masked people with their scalpels cut through her skin, through the womb, even though the amniotic fluid and took me out. With that same knife, they cut through the only thing connecting me and my mother.
As I grew up, food was cut up for me with a knife. A smiling woman kissing me on the forehead and stroking my hair cut though the dead meat I was about to eat. Small pieces of a bird that could once fly, that once had a family, breaded up and served like... like she was nothing.
Even in school, plastic knives used to cut food. Now the same tool used to bring me into the world was in my hand. I felt powerful with that knife. I guess other kids did too.
Bullies wielding switchblades cornered me in the back of the school, the same old sinister smiles lingering on their faces. Kicking me on the ground, laughing like hyenas when they opened my backpack to find my journal. They read all of my deepest secrets, and just laughed at it, taunting me, telling me that my life was just some funny joke.
The knives followed me everywhere, even home. I grabbed one from the counter and ran to my room. I sat on my bed with a towel over my thighs, just in case. I held up my wrist, and pulled back the sleeve. Then, the knife cut. It did its job quite well, slicing through some small veins. The pain didn't matter, this was my punishment. It's my fault Mom had a C-Section, my fault I'm bullied, my fault mom is still single, my fault she beats me up after school, my fault I let teachers see the bruises, and have to come up with an excuse from the top of my head..... it's all my fault.
My last knife, was in my room as well. Tears are falling from my cheeks, another beating. Mom is standing in the door. I take my knife out from under an unwashed pillow, fresh blood still dripping off of it. I hold it to my neck, Mom's eyes go from angry, to scared. She runs to me, holding her hand out, wishing she could take it all back, but it was too late. I whisper out to no one except myself, "It's all my fault.", and the knife does its job, slicing through my throat as I fall to the ground.

Because if knives started it, they should end it too.

Knives