at the corner of asceticism & hedonism

What happens when the human loses all inhibition for slicing paper with scissors.
There’s not a poem here, this is not a poem, this act is cutting.
Like a collage of cut photo scraps, reforming an attractive subject.
Those legs, these breasts, that hair.

Saved draft documents, closed caskets, becoming inobnoxious.
I put on that face because it’s healthy to tend to oneself, it cares.
Borrowed features, beautiful creatures.

If you listen closely, you may hear these mascara black eyelashes scratching on the pillowcase.
You don’t believe it? I’m not pretending to sleep, blink, scrape.

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