"Not So Shape Object" 

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A poem by: Isabeau Ezlyn Blair

 

Being fearful of sharp objects was something I had been taught from a young age. Making sure to walk two steps away from the edges, always covering pens and pencils before putting them away.

 

It wasn’t until I was older that I finally found a name for it. Aichmophobia: the fear of sharp objects.  It became easier to make sense of, now that I knew there was a name to call it.

 

After 30 years of carefully watching my every move, wearing gloves in the summer, never even opening a window myself. This had become my version of normal until my significant other moved in. 

 

They had been to my house and enjoyed the intriguing custom-built home with only rounded edges and no corners. The first few months passed smoothly, of course, this was prior to the incident. 

 

While passing the newspaper one morning, the paper slipped effortlessly across my palm. I didn’t feel pain, wouldn’t have noticed at all. Except for the strange pool of liquid collecting on the table was amiss. 

 

The cut wasn’t deep, the shocking part was the liquid that came from the only wound I’ve ever had. What I can only call my blood was not the typical red I expected as I had always seen.

 

Instead, the dripping liquid consisted of a septum of iridescent colors. A small pool of my blood was like looking into a kaleidoscope of ever-changing colors upon the reflection of light. 

 

The truth is that I was still human. I wasn’t born human, I was created, human.  Everything about me was identical as any other aside from the sight of my own blood.  

 

This was why I was taught to fear sharp objects, this fear concealed my truth.