Cut

September 29, 2014 at 8:36 am (Poems, Stories) (comfort, depression, hair, life)

Impulsive as considered from the outside, but this is a simplification. The edge of depression is a three syllable look in the mirror – long and hard. Against her own better judgement, with a lifetime’s layers of experience, it is with a sense of inevitability that she opens the utensil drawer and picks out the scissors.

Heavy heart?
Heavy hair?
Comb up
tie round
hold tight
finger thumb
scissor snip
let go
un tie
tidy up
brush down
don’t look
lighter now
there there.

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