Scissors

The scissors remind me of sex. The smooth ocean blue calms me down until the circles morph into a young girl right in front of my eyes. The sensual curves and pleasing twists of the handle rearrange their complex and interwoven lines until they form a shape I recognize as my own image. Abruptly! The sensitive curves cease and a sharp point protrudes my mind. It's foreign and exotic. Men, with their ability to cut, to wound, to scar, glow mockingly at me as if all my hopes in the handle are useless without him. For what good would a handle be with out a blade? On the other hand, what good would a blade be without a handle? Maybe men and women are truly dependent on each other to function. Blades-tools of war, power, survival and revenge-have been ubiquitous since time began. Somehow they seemed to have survived without handles. Handles are a fairly recent concept after all, used to tame the danerous blades, make them more adaptable and useful. But can a handle stand alone without a purpose, without a blade? Are there any feminist scissors?