There are knives hidden all around the apartment. 

Definitely one in the office. Probably one on the bed.
We’ve both used them and forgotten.
We’ve both opened boxes we weren’t ready for and looked for boxes we hadn’t opened yet.
Already, you’ve cut your hand 3-4 times, 2 of them on those last knuckles before the nails.
I’m bruised but not bloody.

There are metaphors waiting all around the apartment.
Some will cut you open. Probably all will leave a mark.