I was cutting out pictures –
For my scrapbook, the one
I always joked would be sitting in my lap
When I am older than dirt
And you finally come to see me again –
I was using my best, my sharpest scissors
When my hand began to shake
I dropped the pictures and gripped the handle
Til the knuckles on my right hand
Turned white – my hand shaking all the while.
My hand floated up in the air, the blade
Of the scissors pointing down,
Poised for destruction.
I watched in morbid fascination
As the pointed end made its way, I thought,
Towards the pictures now sitting in my lap.
Ah…but the pictures were not the target
My pale porcelain wrist was.
It occurred to me that I should either
Move my wrist or change the direction of the scissors
But I did neither, and the tip pierced my skin
I felt nothing, really, beyond annoyance
That the scissors hadn’t gone deeper…
So I scratched the tip against my wrist
Over and over and over.
That was dumb.
Hmmm…guess I should go bandage it up.