why i should stop writing poetry late at night
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.
and i'm so goddamn scared.
i shouldn't be, i mean,
it's just hair,
but it's also this thick shield,
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,
so i'll just lay my head down
and think of scissors.