I did well in school, except for the beginning.
The failed requirement to master scissors
in Kindergarten has always haunted me –
to be deemed unsatisfactory
just because I liked to do it differently
should have told me something about the end.

How could I have known, joyfully snipping
at snowflakes and imaginary devils, that
it would be by the hands of a scissor-skilled,
city-slick, angel-faced Ceaser-Valentino
that my heart would be cut clean through and I
discarded, having failed again to make the cut?
 
I’ve scissor-kicked my way back into believing
my worth isn’t what you say it is or what
you have recorded on some piece of paper
meant to forever define my limitations.
I’m snipping through the false reports, determined
to create life beautiful, telling you to cut it out.