Bluntness Cuts - Nov 1 2021

 

Bluntness Cuts

Nov 1 2021

You slice, dice, mince.

Hone, plunge, stick.

Sharpen 'til it glints,

then the coup de grace

of a cruel twist

to finish them off.

Yet it's the dull edge

the concealed weapon

that hurt the most.

Because bluntness cuts.

The whole truth and hard facts

that go to the heart,

the soft underbelly

of all who've ever felt

unsure of themselves.

But wield them with care

or you will bloody yourself.

The razor-sharp blade

that painlessly cuts;

slipping freely through flesh

until you look down and see,

the tip of a finger

cleanly severed

swimming in red.

Or, if you choose, spoon-feed pleasantries,

the comforting deceptions

and unctuous flatteries

that become automatic

in polite company.

Because words can heal, as well as hurt.

Just beware

the self-inflicted wound.

The slim stiletto,

slyly slipped

between your ribs

in those dark nights of despair.

The sharp tongue

that cuts to the quick

with unsparing accuracy.

With the surgical precision

only you can know.

The clever little pricks

of self-critical wit

with which you needle yourself;

the grim truths

that hurt, but give you strength.

Radical honesty sounds nice in theory, but must be terribly destructive in practice. Because the comforting deceptions and unctuous flatteries are necessary lubricants in social discourse. No one wants to know that dress makes them look fat!

The poem turns on the nuance of language, the contrast between a blunt knife and blunt speech: while the dull knife is rendered powerless, blunt speech can be the most hurtful. The knife here shifts between an actual and a metaphorical one. And can do the most damage in our internal monologue: the hard truth we speak to ourselves in moments of introspection, self-criticism, radical honesty. But also the most constructive. Because self-deception is the worst kind, and denial gets you nowhere.