Scissors

Scissors, glossy pictures,

Glide between the snapping silver blades,

Guillotine-edged, lip-looking, glinting in the sunlight,

That filters through the dust and lace,

Dead flies and grime that veil the window's glass.

Celebrities are amputated from their paper prison,

Pieces of the pages, edges and corners, float away.

Each image, some bold, some fading,

Gather in drifts on the wall, with it's peeling paint,

They are stabbed by drawing-pins,

Bound in masking tape,

Hiding blood-messages and eyeliner-graffiti,

Pleasing to the eyes,

Of a girl like me,

Sitting in solitary confinement,

Left to go mad.

The End

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