Burn

take a dream, and slowly draw lines, straight or curved; run across the fabric a sharp blade

to split in two, the criss-cross threads, that were once so binding. You can't make it your fault, the scissors weren't yours, but they cut so sharp, taking you off guard. That evening, there was nothing you could have done, when the moon controlled the waves to crash, burning ice cold on your skin, breaking down all you once lived for.