scissor-proof

silken words but neutral vanity, so much
for flattery. i’d rather they cut than
sit and duck, when people talk of its silk.
a longing heart takes no more than one, two
too much they say – “he don’t mean it that way.”

but i do, i do, if my words don’t cut
then let them bleed – a pool of ignorance;
reminders of frozen words, frozen tongue.
yet you were warmer, and brighter; thawed me –
seems like the winter cold is contagious.

you were my colour pencil in black white
prison – yet you couldn’t write my story,
or fill the gaps of silence. the words i
spoke, never cut, never hurt, never feel.
you wore filtered lenses, and filtered me.

what i said, i meant – what you said, they dreamt.

And dreams don’t cut the same.

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