You cannot know
the sting of your
haste-made blades
as you cut my threads bare,
as you clip
my long, lovely locks
clean through
and take my power with you.
This is not what should be-
the metal-wielding villain should be me-
this is not how the fable that
bares our names wrote it.
It was me in ancient texts
that brought down the
selfish blade
to trade your love and curls for coins.
But in my stead, it’s you
cutting strands, heedlessly,
for the currency
of foreign flesh.
My thoughts race as
I lay my head down
and watch as I am shorn
by loving hands.
You cut the ties-
rip the seams
of braid and scalp.
My disorder screams of
your betrayal, this-
your shearing burns
like hot salt
searing down my cheeks.
Oh my friend, were you afraid?
Did you doubt my trust
as I lay in your lap to rest,
eyes lidded heavily in dreaming?
Did you notice that,
my sweetest friend,
my softest side was upward, turned
to you?
No, treachery is blind
and an uncovered heart holds
no more weight
than the severed mane that kills it.
So snip!
You cut my hair.
Clip!
You burn my skin, and muscle, too
and bid farewell
with sharpened scissors
till I am not but a scalding,
scratching, naked head.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 6:19 AM UTC
You cannot know
the sting of your
haste-made blades
as you cut my threads bare,
as you clip
my long, lovely locks
clean through
and take my power with you.
This is not what should be-
the metal-wielding villain should be me-
this is not how the fable that
bares our names wrote it.
It was me in ancient texts
that brought down the
selfish blade
to trade your love and curls for coins.
But in my stead, it’s you
cutting strands, heedlessly,
for the currency
of foreign flesh.
My thoughts race as
I lay my head down
and watch as I am shorn
by loving hands.
You cut the ties-
rip the seams
of braid and scalp.
My disorder screams of
your betrayal, this-
your shearing burns
like hot salt
searing down my cheeks.
Oh my friend, were you afraid?
Did you doubt my trust
as I lay in your lap to rest,
eyes lidded heavily in dreaming?
Did you notice that,
my sweetest friend,
my softest side was upward, turned
to you?
No, treachery is blind
and an uncovered heart holds
no more weight
than the severed mane that kills it.
So snip!
You cut my hair.
Clip!
You burn my skin, and muscle, too
and bid farewell
with sharpened scissors
till I am not but a scalding,
scratching, naked head.
(I tenderly hate this poem.)
Grace Culloton 2010