The knife cut my skin, if it were butter. I touched a hot stove. And held a sharp knife. I would play with dull knives, pointy knives, butter knives, or sharp knives. But I didn’t understand how dangerous it was because I was so young as young as a brand new book. Finally, I got burned by touching the hot stove it was a painful experience like when I ran into a hard wooden pole. But there was the knife. That I would still hold and play around with and I would still never get injured. The knife smiled and giggled.

My parents never knew that I was playing with knives, but they did know I burned my hand on the stove and they asked if I learned my lesson and I did learn my lesson about not touching the stove but my parents were extremely worried if I was doing anything else that was dangerous, but I didn’t learn the lesson of holding a knife and playing around with it and I felt awful for the stove as horrible as seeing a tree dying and I played with the stove too.

But I was always careful of not burning myself I did not want to experience the awful burn that I had learned my lesson from. I burned my hand on the stove again and I knew that was going to happen again because I was careless and was not paying attention to the stove and then I got burned as burned as a burned leaf. “Dangerous things, lesson learned.” Scorch, Slice.