Black dress
Label scratchy, rough.
I ask him: use these scissors
Sharp end facing me
Like kindergarten.
He reaches across my fist
takes them blade end first
pressing dull metal edges against skin,
indenting my palm,
sliding shears through yielding fingers.
Tactile punishment
For the wrong question…
He disregards the tool.
Eyes grazing me, squinted stare,
Placing one hand on my shoulder, (suggests the turn)
spinning me 'round
barely brushing hair above collar
holding,
Sliding his other hand
down my neck, inside
the black dress
he tears the label swiftly, leaving no blemish.
And without peering back
I exit the room, stage left,
as if nothing really happened.
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