Scissors

And the final knot
is twisting in my chest
unravelling everything left
that keeps me tethered to you
until I can only see a few things:
your face red and pained,
your hands nervous and spotted,
feet, pointing toward me, then away,
and your eyes, searching mine.
I assure you, dear friend,
that there is nothing hidden
in these brown irises
for you to resurrect.
What has died has remained so.
I walk away whispering endless prayers
to a God who sees every single
frayed thread in this rope,
and I ask for him to ease the process
as this last tangle gives,
but he offers no promises.
Instead he reminds me
of what I hold in my shaky hands:
a pair of silver scissors.

I open them up,
and press down,
with all the strength I have left.