In retrospect, you'd always been a knife--ages before you and I became WE and US. You always remorselessly cut your unsuspecting victims, while they fell harder.
The first time you cut me, I bled, crying tears of anguish.
The second time, we suffered together, crying through your teary confession. You still hadn't learned, and neither had I, instantly forgiving you.
The third time, I remained nonchalant. No, I didn't bleed—I couldn't anymore. The cut wasn't deep enough. Through your sobs and pleas, I withdrew carefully, watching you bleed to exhaustion.
For the first time ever, I cut you.