knife.

I held unto the knife as if I could dull the cold, stainless steel edge with my palms. She pulled, and pushed, and I held steadfast.

"Stop struggling." She whispered, finding my eyes with her own in an desperate attempt at a fragile, atemporal connection. As if to say she was sorry, she smiled, and pushed her weight behind the knife.

"Stop!" I yelled, squeezing the blade, feeling the skin rip.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore." She begged, and her shoulders sagged.

Mine did too.

Seeing my moment of weaning, the lessening of my blunt determination to stop the knife, she pushed again. The motion repeated itself; I held unto the knife blade, willing it to cut no skin but mine, and she held the handle with furious determination.

We fell unto the bed, unto the floor, managed to stand. The knife escaped her hand and skidded away from her, and I made a move to hold her down. Her hand found my neck and squeezed and I, hurt more by the gesture than the physicality of the berserk violence, wept with my throat tight under her fingers.

"Enough." I begged.

"Let me die!" She yelled, seeking the blade.

"No!" She grabbed it, turned in bed, and made a move to stab her gut. Unable to stop her in time, I hugged her, covering her smaller torso with my thick, wiry arms and now bleeding hands.

"No, I don't want to hurt you." She wept, and I hugged her tighter.

"Stop."  She loosened her hold.

I kissed her neck.

"I love you."

"I love you too." She said, putting away the knife on the nightstand besides the bed.

"It's alright, babe."

"Okay, hun. Okay."

She started crying, and I held her as if I could dull her pain with my arms wrapped tight around her.