i am thankful
for the knife
that is made
of kind words
that cuts
without opening
the skin
that pares the fat
of my soul
(if i have one)
that makes a hollow
around my heart
(if it still beats)
i fold my hands
in gratitude
that i only bleed
on the inside
i lower my eyes
in humble appreciation
of the merciful cut
Words and Feathers 
Oh it spills out, or gushes or seeps or flows or drips or surges……..it comes out.
I suppose it can’t be kept inside.
An interesting ironic exposure of the complications of interactions…’kindness’ is not always so kind…and sometimes we cut without even knowing it (that’s where my mind went…)
I see that in this poem. 😀