I chased my sister with a knife
  once when we were little.
Dad sent me to my room saying,
  “I don’t know if I can ever trust you.”
Like I was actually going to hurt her
  or had a chance of catching her.
I just wanted to scare her
  like she scared me
Waiting in dark corners
  to jump out and say “Boo.”
So many times she scared me
  until finally I snapped,
Chased her around the dining table
  she screaming, me deadly silent,
Clutching the knife in my hand
  like a club or a talisman. 
Not even a steak knife or bread
  knife or paring knife,
But an ordinary table knife
  for buttering a roll.
And yet… I can almost recall
  the heat of the moment,
The rage and shame and
  helplessness, the fear…
Perhaps it was best that Dad
  intervened before I drew blood.
Although, I don’t think she said
  “Boo” much after that.