The first cut is always the scariest,
Then it seems to be less nefarious.

A simple correction to alter the form,
A form so faltered we cannot adorn.

The more you cut, the more you see,
You’re closer to the person you’ve wanted to be.

Lost in a sea of necessities,
Of the nose, the thigh, and the high-boned cheek.

Only to know that they’ve had a miss;
So, you cut and cut again to show,
A side of you that you did not know.

They’ll loathe you for your beauty,
Or so you start to think,
As you sit there, blade in hand;
In front of the bathhouse sink.

The people who knew you, now look away,
They don’t understand why you’ve become this way,
A shell of who you were before,
But what was wrong with you- before?