Scissors
Snip away the flesh.
Blood spits
on the unforgiving floor,
stained,
soaked in,
to the point where the tile bursts-
soul helpless, gas exposed
and the poison kicks in-
pounding
pulsing,
running through the intoxicated veins-
that now bulge
from my gullible skin,
hypnotized thoughts,
addicted to devotion.
A pain so good it lingers
as if ripping out each organ
one
by one.
Then the taste of regret thickens-
a sweet intensified swelling-
of what could have
what should have been.
But instead of leaving for death
you clench tight your warm, soft hands
around the scissors,
and carve it out,
chest exposed,
broken.
It always belonged to you
and though you verify,
wanting security,
proof.
It was always you.
You still emphasis the fact
it was different this time
time taught how to forgive-
yet you aren't welling to see it through,
risk,
put yourself out on the tightrope.
Instead of casting your spell
you flee.
And then, purity is revealed.
Mirror image of yourself,
alone,
on the ground,
lifeless,
breathless,
eyes-
a distorted fuzz,
the same, gentle brown-
Petrified with recognition
realizing what you avoided,
what you forced away
came raging, smacking you in the face.
Blood caressing your forsaken goals,
your broken promises
and vital unspoken words.
Never have scissors accessorized so perfectly,
resting gently upon your empty chest
reflecting acceptance,
forgetting reason.
Copyright © Sarah Casey | Year Posted 2011
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