Double Poignard Red Rage

The falling feeling
Of dizzy connectedness
And the snip, snip, snipping
Of the tiny cuticle scissors.

Small enough to hide in my hand
Instrument
Of impotent rage
Inexpressible anger
Frustration
Shame.

Sent to my room for some
Post-Victorian
infringement
Completely incomprehensible.

What do these bloody parents want?
Really?
My 3 year old self has no idea.

Once again
Tucked under her arm
Fighting
Thrown onto my bed
Door slammed
I rip books
Scribble in them, throw them.

But now I have the scissors
Its tiny blades
Don’t make hacking rents
That I want to see
They make sparrow pecks
On the duvet.

Peck, peck, peck
Goes the tiny beak
It is not enough
Peck, peck, peck, peck, peck, peck.

A small cumulus of feathers floats to the carpet under my bed
Appear in drifts of snow
But it is not enough
To contain my universe of pure
Red rage.

Not enough to express my galaxy of shame.

Not even touching the vast depths of the oceans of my frustration.


My tiny hand is left with this tiny
Double poignard
And it is not enough
For all that I feel
For all that I want to express
All that I need to tell.

But no one is listening
Even my sister is not
She is just a baby.

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