Sheared Past

The chair creaks under the weight of my breath,

while scissors glint under harsh, bright lights,

each snip sounds like a soft exhale of loss,

memories cascade, little lengths of me,

dropping on the floor, my past scattering,

where they’ll remain, frayed edges of what was.

Staring at the mirror, a stranger grins back,

her hands precise, a surgeon of change,

touching me like a secret, careful and quick,

a childhood fades, floating away, cut loose,

but still, I feel the weight of every strand,

cutting ties, as the clock ticks loud with regret.