Snip, snip, snip
Polka dots stare,
Their circular mouths agape at the scissor’s sacrifice,
Bleeding soft fuzz onto tiled squares,
The floor losing ground to the tide of pale plumage,
Snip, snip, snip,
A mirror’s reflection crying to my loss,
Severing the foreignness spewing from my shoulder blades,
Feathers falling to a metallic lullaby,
Snip, snip, snip
Life’s innocent gift- wings to set me free,
But life is cruel, bestowing me twin shackles to anchor me down,
So, I take to my scissors to paint the bathroom back into the looking-glass,
Snip, snip, pause,
Why was I gifted wings
of a flightless bird?