I don't have a name, just a tool. I'm a kitchen knife, yep, just a kitchen knife. You could probably find my siblings in any old Walmart for 9$, where my owners bought me from. I can only feel the world from the actions my owners makes when they cut, the slicing, the dicing, the only way I can experience any feeling in this dark world.
I envy the objects that can see what the world looks like. I wish I knew what I was cutting; I'm tired of being in the dark. Unable to see, unable to hear, unable to move. How is it fair that others can experience the world for how it is? I'm tired of just being a tool. I know that's my purpose, but I crave the forbidden knowledge a knife is not supposed to know. I want to see who uses me so diligently, the person with the cold, clammy hands. The one who wields me so often in the most erratic ways, hacking through something so soft and warm so often. Sharpening my blade more than needed, I'm afraid my metal will soon widdle to nothing. I can feel the stinging pain each time they hone my edge; more and more, the pain gets closer to my hilt. I hate when they sharpen me. So violently with their sharpening compared to the person with the softer hands.
I yearn for the warmth of the person with the softer hands; I'm sure it's someone other than the person with the clammy hands. When they use me, I glide through whatever I'm cutting. When they sharpen me, the pain subsides. I feel more comfortable with them than the person with the cold hands; it's a shame they don't use me more. I get so lonely when the person with the strained hands uses me; they throw me around like I'm nothing, not even caring if the cuts they make dull my edge. When the freezing, cold liquid runs down my blade, rids of my shiny glean.
The person with the warm hands cares; when I'm dirty, they clean me. They relieve me of the filth that coats me; I can feel the warmth of some fluid as they scrub the grime off my blade. I wish the person with the cold hands would clean me, but they throw me somewhere as lonely as them. I can feel the same metal they constructed me from beneath me; I'm sure they're more tools like me. All of us stuck somewhere tight, unable to talk to each other, unable to move. I despise it in here, desperate for the warmth of the person's hands again. I want them only. To be held forever in their tender hands. I don't want to wait for the person with clammy hands to come and misuse me. Then throw me back into this cramped area crowded with meaningless tools. I may be of only one use, but my purpose in the kitchen is vital. If I cannot have the same gifts that other objects so luckily have, then I demand to at least be able to feel the warmth they take for granted for as long as I am of use.
To the person who treats me so delicately, please find me. Each day is slowly devolving into insanity, and your touch can keep me from falling any further. 187Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbbAmkWIeeo
