i’m not entirely sure
what i look like anymore:
it’s blurring together.
15 with long hair
and 16 with purple hair,
17 with short hair and
17 with shorter hair.
i cut my hair off
to find salvation and
the moon sings to me
about how short hair
is divine and a promise.
short hair is tiny little
strands in the bathroom sink
and hair not quite fitting in
a hairband anymore.
short hair is cutting off the
memories held in the bleach
and remembering things
how i want.
the past never happened
and there is no present
without the death of the future.
the blood between my legs
is Time itself,
and there is something awfully
divine and promising about
me.
short hair is remembering
who i was as a toddler
and letting my teenage
years become a marbled cake.
short hair is standing under hot
water for a moment too long,
and bearing the weight
of years of
promises never made.
i feel the pain and
let it drain away.
mud is caked
under my finger nails
and on my skin.
i scrub it off ;
clean and clean.
if i clean too much will
there be anything left?
my skin is warm for hours after i shower.
i should change my hair again.
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