I inherited an expensive pearl necklace of
curses not rare, not cute,
just bad decisions, year on year,
looped together in a trauma route.

Each pearl hummed life advice to me:
Marry for lust, Divorce if need be.
Love is labor, kindness a penniless work,
Whenever I tried to the wear the Chain,
Darkness would then lurk.

So I first cut one pearl loose.
And poverty fled — .
After cutting a few more, bad habits bled.

Bad marriages hit the floor at last,
After I cut the whole chain I exhaled, leaving behind my generational past.

Gold scissors: therapy in hand.
Old candle now burned with a new light.
A skull reminds me— history repeats
don’t make the dead alive or right.

My ancestors watched in silent fear:
“Are you allowed?” they asked, unsure.
Yes. The necklace broke and died.
The curse clocked out—no longer secure.

Now my neck is bare, my future light,
the family tree still claims its place—
just trimmed of what no longer serves,
a legacy refined by grace.

Breaking chains asks no sacrifice,
just humor, nerve, and clarity—
a pair of scissors, one deep breath, a mind to change and declaring … I’m free.