I have always been a cutter,
Of paper for art projects and of my finger on that paper
(always so clumsy, that one)
Then of meat for a family meal, first in tandem with an educator
and then because my autopilot was the sole one that happened to be working
(on that day, at least)
I cut sentences from short stories that I viewed as self indulgent
I cut out friends and family who made me feel small.
I cut thighs and hips and calves
(to be tattooed later)
I wanted indelible marks of my own design, not just the scars of your stares,
Approving or disapproving, no matter when
The intention is to slice two inches off my already stunted height.
But hey, what would I know.
At least, I’m told, I have a nice arse
(For a pseudo-intellectual.)