Cutting Truth

I love people so much to the point where they pull out scissors

to make a collage out of our relationship- slicing away each day until

it fits the requirements for their need for space

their need for -silence-, their need to be with

anyone or anything else that does not resemble me.

I have been cursed out in more languages than one and I, too, am not blameless.

I own the faltering phrases and heavy hands that clasp at my sides

when I can’t breathe over the pain I have caused in other’s lives.

Some collages are more finished than others, diced into neat proportions

or haphazardly slashed, torn, burned, and the offender's hands remain unbothered

all because they were hurt, that is reason enough to cut seven years of friendship to bits.

They were hurt, that is why they called me selfish, worthless, hopeless.

They smiled as their shining scissors slid threw me and disregarded what I thought entirely…

Having the life we had once experienced together chopped up wasn’t enough,

there needed to be dialogue of their voice tied to the raw edges to facilitate the visual…

'selfish, worthless, hopeless, selfish, worthless, hopeless'...

If my presence does not serve happiness then yes, I will gladly disappear.

Blot me out…

But I ask to be left with an ounce of something untouched by anger.

I know nothing of a complete past,

but then again

I don’t know anyone who does.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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