He picked up the scissors, but he used a knife

to carve away who I was and leave

who I could be.

A spritz of water to keep the image loose —

the edges blurred, the face undefined.

The layers of my self snip, snipped away

to settle on the floor, leaving

the dark undercoat to finally feel the sun.

He turns me around to confront the sight

of how much I’ve changed over the

years

months

hours.

His lips move, asking if I am satisfied.

“I think a little more,” I reply.