All around us sharp edges were breaking down our motivations to be anything that might bleed past the cuts. Most of us didn’t have the guts to try but if we would’ve we’d have known that the edges weren’t real, or at least not permanent in their places. They weren’t like normal kitchen knives that would cut you for sure but instead more like prickles on a pineapple or the needles on a porcupine—full of dynamic life and happy to have a conversation with you about their place in the world if you’d only ask. But we never ask most of the time because each of us has had our slip with a kitchen knife and shudders not only to remember the cut and the pain but moreso the drop of blood in the stew that the whole family was counting on so that our pain is twofold and only the first is selfish whereas the second has to do with our place in society and even if we were to brave the pain we wouldn’t want to be outcasted beyond the edges.