Layers

scissors
cut through most
all but skin
I have tried
over
and over
again
tracks of shame
left against
golden fields
mingled with
shame
and thoughts
of
what could have been
for hours
I snip
layer
after layer
but they grow back
until im covered
in pounds
of heavy denial
sometimes
I look at my reflection
and think
how much can I hold
before the fabric
runs thin
will I also
be thin
or will
I become nothing
but loose ends