Paper Blood

glass sprouts underneath
my swelling skin
and paper roots reach like bony fingers

I am chopped down
by children swinging their scissors
rusted with blood
from the paper they have sliced

but the children are just children
running through melting puddles
giggling of secrets

and as if they thought I would mind
being chopped by stained scissors
in meaty fists
too small to control shimmering blades
too small to hold me

I grow upwards
in hope for a kiss
that will turn me to glass
because she desires glass
more than paper