Come see me in a good light.
I collage with my pair of hair trimming scissors, I trim my hair with them too.
I found them in my medicine cabinet at home when I was as young as the divot between march and april, when I was young like spring. The scissors are spindly and meek with red handle bars but Ive known them longer than most friends.
They've created my most fortunate pieces and most unfortunate haircuts. My little red scissors have knoun napsacks by the dozens, the plains of the midwest, and the mountains of the east coast. My little red scissors have seen airport terminals and five of my bedrooms. They've sat in a dirty sink or two yet they refuse to rust.
come see me in a good light, like my little red scissors.
Who've seen me through my most vertiginous transitional phases, who’ve become the companion reliquary to my collegiate acolyte.
Who’ve seen me bubble with hate and fester with love.
Who’ve seen my impetuous years, who’ve seen me manducate the tough fat of a singular moment.
I’m not materialistic, in fact i’m a bit of a minimalist.
I’ve left behind flotsam and jetsam in every bed I’ve dreamt in.
But you will never disseminate me from my little red scissors.
Because they see me in a good light.
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