The Comment

You need a cut.

That's what they said,

their fingers still in my hair

like they were taking its temperature,

checking the gauge of neglect.

I've touched the back of my neck all day since then.

The longest part. The part that made you frown.

I touch it and feel what you felt—

the softness that has nothing to do with care,

the length that has nothing to do with choice,

just time passing and me not stopping it.

Your fingers pulled away.

You didn't say anything else.

But the statement had already landed—

I am something that needs fixing,

I am the kind of person who doesn't notice

when they're becoming unkempt,

when they're starting to look like someone

who's given up.

In the mirror, I can see what you saw.

But I haven't made the appointment.

I've just kept touching the back of my neck,

kept feeling where your judgment

landed softest.