No, I don’t mind making the sandwiches
for our piss-up picnic in the park:
it’s strangely satisfying to slice
the cheddar for your Ploughman’s
using the same knife I hack
away at my wrists with, the one I keep
hidden up my sleeve on days when I’m
not safe in my own skin, the one I sleep
with on nights when you’re away and I don’t
trust my own heartbeat, the one I reach
for when I need clarity to shine through the insanity,
with its unfailing black handle and mirrored serrated blade.
Honestly, I don’t mind making the sandwiches
at all, babe.