The hands of scissors can trim lawns into dinosaur shapes, like the doll that covered your water bed the first time I accidentally broke it; I was the kid who panicked and hid the mistakes.
Scissors hands can cut salads and steaks, and I love praise and your gaze; I'm the kid who wants affirmation.
The hand of the scissors can open the lock, because I will not refuse your request; I am a child with clear eyes.
The hand of scissors can smash tires, can make devils, I tremble in front of the mirror, I am a willful bad boy.
I just can't hug you, I scratch you and scratch yourself, my approach is a sharp blade, I'm an innocent stupid child.
I think of Dad's storybook and the blood on his face. In the place where I was born and died, cold machines smiled and cooked cookies, slice by slice like the ice chips I used to carve your profile. The roses under the window bloom year after year, your youthful face that never fades. Will you still think of me when it snows next Christmas?
I am not an unfinished machine, I am the child who keeps love.
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