When you held the knife at my throat
and told me not to cry,
while pressing it harder and drawing a short trickle of blood,
involuntary tears trickled down my face.
I gritted my teeth at my impending demise;
my fury at your audacity
of the choices exacted upon me
of the choices extracted from me.
I whispered ‘no’ quietly at first,
shrinking from your blade
as your sneering spittle flecked my already damp face.
I tried not to swallow as you outlined my limited options
and tried to digest the dearth of any alternative
the suffocating finality of this dense atmosphere.
After a time, I blinked and the tears stopped.
I blinked again and my teeth ground harder.
I blinked once more, and swallowed,
my throat sliding painfully over your blade drawing more of that unnerving
deep
red
blood.
I shook in fear but feared your blade no more:
I pressed against it, as you continued to impress its futility upon me.
The trickle became a stream
but I did not blink again and no more tears ran
as I forced myself up to my full height.
You shouted at my audacity,
stomping your foot petulantly
repeating ‘my’ options.
Aware of the stream becoming a river, still I didn’t blink against dry eyes,
Saying instead
loudly
and quite simply,
“No.”
Book of Pye 