I found the photo

I found the photo.

The bangs are blunt. Uneven.

You can see my hands shaking in the photo.

I was standing in the bathroom

at two in the morning,

the door locked,

trying to cut away the parts

of myself that felt wrong.

Like hair grows on intention.

Like you can remake yourself

with kitchen scissors

and be someone new by morning.

My kid asked why.

Why did I cut them like that?

And I couldn't explain

that some acts aren't about outcome.

They're about the act itself.

The small violence of trying.

The bangs didn't change anything.

I was still the same person

behind them.

Just less recognizable to myself.

Just slightly more desperate.

The kid is asking because they know

something was wrong.

Not with the hair.

With the person holding the scissors.

I can't tell them

that some days you wake up

and you need to break something

to prove you still have hands.

That sometimes remaking yourself

means standing in the dark

and cutting. Just cutting.

Waiting for the person in the mirror

to look like someone you could live with.