Scissor

You of all people should know
what it’s like to comb the bottom of
others’ cotton fears,
stitched so thin
a semi-sharpened set
of shears
could pierce them,

and I of all reasonable
people should hear when
steel teeth
sheepishly
spend
so much time on wasted threads
wondering where
a challenge went

under the arm
across the chest
cross my heart

these scissor hands will
not relent.

It sows small
tears, sometimes
several at a time,
complete disregard
for the

painstaking seams
we used
to plan out
the rest of
a couple mismatched
lives.

And yet,
under the arm
along the neck
down the back

you cut me to shreds.

Scissor hands are not
meant to
be gently
met.

 

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3 thoughts on “Scissor

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