snip-snip, their scissors go.

they start to cut out a shape. the smooth blade of the metal slices into the paper rubbed between their fingers and gracefully, almost morbidly, strips and corners start to fall away and melt into an intangible pile on the desk.

and then these bits and pieces are discarded into the nearest bin as soon as the clutter grows too big; until they're too small and insignificant to even mean anything and they're too ruined to belong everywhere.

snip-snip. the shape starts to take form.

it's beautiful. you can't admit otherwise, because the handicraft is good and the shape is good. no one can complain about a textbook display of perfection.

snip-snip, and the sound bangs and clatters and resounds in your head over and over again, and you don't know when exactly they've evolved into laughs that shatter your ears and force you into a ball that can't uncurl itself.

and suddenly you're the one held between their fingers, stiff and poised and forced onto a pedestal that—they have cut out of paper too—and too much of you has been cut off for you to function without anyone else anymore.

people see a work when they glance at the cut-out. they think about how good it looks, how the edges of the paper is so perfectly shaped and how it's so pleasing to look at. they never think about how—

they never think about the crumpled bits of paper lying in the bin, ready to be sent to the incinerator and all too soon, these ragtag, imperfect pieces will go up in flames and nothing will remain of them because no one wants them.

snip-snip, and oh, they've made a small chink. a bit too much, but it's fine, because all that's needed is to shave off a bit more from the sides and no one will notice.

too much, you want to scream, but crafts don't have mouths and all you can do is watched in dazed silence as you get whittled away at. it's just like people to do so; rip off all the parts they don't find necessary and turn it into something they find beautiful.

and you're never whole again. the original sheet of paper has long been forgotten in their mind; all they can think about is the cutout in front of them.

the snipping stops sometime. you don't remember. they've taken everything away from you.

everything they don't find useful, that is.

do they try to cover it up? do they try to cover up how small the cutout has grown by plastering on gaudy beads and decorations of their own, because humans will fall for that cheap trick and laugh and clap all the same?

you are still held in their grip, and they are never letting go, because you are not yours anymore. you are theirs and every part of you that you once held close is long gone.

—

snip-snip.

you hope that one day, their hands will slip while trying to make yet another change.

and the blade will slice right through your—already paper-thin—heart.

--

*finger guns at the unnecessary amount of imagery*