Your Worst Haircut

I found the photo and saw

the girl I used to be—

too exposed, breaking law

of privacy, too free

from any ownership of face.

The roommate had dull scissors,

too much confidence, no shame.

I sat while my hair delivers

itself to the floor. Her name

doesn't matter. The blade does.

I remember the light so harsh,

the scissors' blunt and dragging sound,

the way it felt like a marsh—

cold, wet, going down,

disappearing into nothing.

Six months for the hair to grow.

Years for the hurt to know

itself. There's a gap below

the surface, where I show

someone else's version of me.

I lost myself to scissors,

to someone's casual hand,

to the way she delivers

my face to a different land—

one where I don't belong.