Cut Out the Pretty

I could cut out the pretty. I'd dig my knife into your side and scrape with all of my might. You won't be so beautiful to me in the morning, when your eyes are hanging out their sides. The church bells will start ringing, warning me I have no reason or rhyme. I'll press my blade upon your smile, just to make it seem, that you're not so knowingly wonderful all the time. I'll crack the skin that looks like spun silk, bruising with my jagged edge, the lines where your brows lift and playfully fall. I could cut out the pretty. I should cut out the pretty. I'd be justified in to cut out the pretty. I'm not sure I'd want to cut it all.