as though my hair twists stereotypes

why i should stop writing poetry late at night

so i 
tug at the strands of hair draped down my back

like i can force it to grow the extra inch
because i'm a damn coward
and i'm afraid to cut my hair too short

i'm chopping off 12 inches of my hair
to donate for kids who've lost theirs due to cancer. 

and, i mean, it's not fully what i want
but at least it'll be shorter, 
and the hair that everyone tells me they love, 
this feminine constriction, 
will finally disappear a little more. 

on second thought, though, 
i've just looked it up. 

the minimum is eight. 
not twelve. 
eight

and i'm so goddamn scared. 

i shouldn't be, i mean, 
it's just hair, 
i guess.

but it's also this thick shield, 
heteronormative protection, 
a small semblance of pretend. 

let's play dollhouse, 
dress me up in pretty skirts, 
cake my skin in makeup, 
paint my lips a raspberry red

but now that i'm older, 
all i want 
is to button-up my shirts, 
smooth down jeans, 
pin my hair into place where it won't fall into my eyes

and soon i won't have to worry about that,
will i?

so i'll just lay my head down
and think of scissors. 

The End

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