“Somebody Else”

A pair of scissors

resting in my palm.

This is a game

of chance.

Because there’s a moment

where I consider,

painting them red.

But I’d soon run out of paint,

so I don’t.

She was asking for it

though I don’t owe her anything.

How bold she was,

standing there with

my face as hers,

dressed in blue.

If this is what dreams are made of,

I must be made of something else.

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