Shorn

The mirror reflected the apparatus
Lined up on the dressing table,
With cold clarity. 
A scissor. 
A knife.
A box of matches.
A screwdriver.
The intense gaze of the girl in the mirror
Unsettled her. Made her falter. 
Only for a moment. 

What attracted?
Identify and annihilate.

Hair. 
Robotically picking up the scissors
She hacked at her hair.
Peacock feathers fell to her feet
Each strand lustrous with 
Vanity and sugared-words.
Nothing but dead cells really. 

Lips. 
The knife glinted as she raised it and
Sliced the tender skin. 
A smile once so inviting
Once so warm 
Now oozed warm blood. 
Nothing but dying cells really. 

Skin. 
Strike. Flame. Blow. 
The smoldering black tip 
Jabbed deep into her skin
Making marks in a clear complexion 
Burns in a skin that had never seen a blemish.
Nothing but burning cells really.

Eyes. 
Knuckles whitened as the grip 
On the screwdriver tightened
Her hand shook as she pierced her eyes
Bloodcurdling screams
Once so lively…so expressive.
Nothing but dead cells really. 

She couldn’t see the bleeding mess 
She believed would free her
Just because you can’t see
Doesn’t mean there’s nothing to see. 


Christina De Silva 
20 March 2010