and the knife she used to cut me was the blunted one from the drawer of kindness, and she cut me by accident, when i was chopping onions in the kitchen and by mistake looked up to see her caressing her new lover's cheek as they stood on her lawn. And the tears from the onions blurred my vision, and she cut me with my own hand. And I felt foolish feeling jealous, or feeling anything at all, because I was here in my kitchen and she was there across the street, and she was entitled to her happiness that i for so long had provided, and still wanted for her too. but i wanted her still, even though that meant damage. and i cursed myself, allowing the spurting blood to say the words i couldn't and feel the pain i wouldn't. the desperate anguish at not having kept her more faithfully within breathing distance, but i didn't know then, that the grass was always much greener on her side of the street.