"She's messed me up, again: my shiny blade
a tarnished map of haemoglobins. Look
at how she spoilt my spine, my bolster glued
with fingerprints! She's crying now, as if
the cuts are my responsibility -
like I should care; she hasn't sharpened me
in days, not since she last kissed me, my scales
and tang held fast between her breasts. I know
she can't love me - I'm just the tool. But still
there must be something there, a hint of care
in choosing me repeatedly to mark
her skin with messages, her runes of loss
and hurt and farewell notes, the secret pains
she takes to wrap me safe in swaddling cloth."
No, it doesn't rhyme, and thus cannot be considered a proper sonnet. But it's got 14 lines of IP, which is enough to claim modern sonnethood.