Scissors.

You sit there

holding hands in a circle

of other little girls

that wear skirts with no knickers

and strap-ons underneath their clothes.

You make daisy chains

of dew, milking out of sacred holes

that you give too easily.

Fingers delve in,

hard and probing

but they don’t probe into you,

who you are

and what you do.

You sit in your chain,

tied to a web

based on dating sites.

Has your Gaydar gone off yet?

Like cheese left out in the open,

you will grow bluey-green

with new holes in your naked

alien body

and bruises from gone teeth.

What happened to real love?

The girl you sit next to

tells you what you want to hear

and you listen, interested

and sincere,

only for you both to turn,

a mirror image of one another,

and repeat the same Ground hog words

to the smiling, interested

and sincere girl

next to you.

I smile and listen to your tales

of arrogance,

as you talk of girls you “blew off”

for other dates

and girls who cling and cry

like they are a game in an

amusement arcade.

Insert your silver in her slot

and watch her go.

I smile,

because somewhere in the circle

two links were broken

only for them to connect to each other

and make their own circle.

Not vicious, repetitive,

cheap or cruel,

but a circle of what real sisterly love is.

We lock legs,

create an instrument that wounds

but neither of us gets hurt.

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One response to “Scissors.

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