I take a pair of scissors and I trim around the edges
Till a visible perimeter remains
The more I seem to cut away the easier it gets
And soon enough I’m past the nerves and into veins

It’s hard to get it started, all the cutting that’s required
To remove all of the faces and the noise
And some, out of concern, perhaps for me or maybe them,
Will try to say that every cut I make destroys

Eventually, the only looming face that ever visits
Is the one made out of hands that never speaks
And all I see are numbers and their meaning of decay
But as for people, I’ve seen no one here in weeks

And so I take the scissors and I cut a little further
Till the space remaining doesn’t have the room
For anyone or anything beyond what I’ve become
But then it’s easier when everything is dead and growing numb
And all the voices are an echo saying, “All you’ve really done
Is slowly cut yourself away into a tomb.”

And all that I can say as a reply is that I know
And if I’m really being honest, I have further still to go
And so I pick the scissors up and I resume