I found it in an envelope loose

I found it in an envelope, loose,

the photograph I didn't know I kept.

Nineteen years old. The hair was short—

too severe, too wrong, and I wept.

I wore hats for three months straight,

avoided mirrors, avoided glass,

avoided the girl in that geometric state,

that version of myself I couldn't pass.

I can't get that hair back,

don't want to, if I'm honest.

Looking at the photo now, I track

the girl I was—she wasn't on it.

She thought short hair meant new,

meant brave, meant anything

except what it was—a thing I'd do

to disappear. That's all it would bring.