Black Scissors
A feeling of love is like an infected arm.
You love that arm, you’ve come to know that arm very well.
But sometimes,
you need to cut it off.
This color and shape, oh yes.
Caressing the cold metal,
savoring this joyous moment between my fingers.
A lifetime of symmetry, severed in an instant.
These black scissors were made for me.
This thread bleeds so beautifully.
I must
keep cutting.
I don’t get the love I need anymore.
I need more,
I need more love.
I need more joy.
Snip snip snip.
The fruits of my labor, the carnage of my joy.
I never run out of thread,
It just stops bleeding.
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