A pair of dead scissors
Kept on the dressing table,
Made in steel
With melamine clasps;
I pick them up
To bring near
The soft curls;
They breathe
They move with my neck
Down until they touch
My back arch;
The blades pass through
The cascades
Breaking the strands
A part gazes
And lives
And the other turns
Into a lifeless
Bunch of black fleece
What all I do
To seem Beautiful!
Fake
Pretend
And
To the most
I snip
Beauty!