Clipped Ends

After another bad hair day,

those scissors shine on the counter,

sharp promises nestled against the mundane.

A friend’s fingers run through,

cooling whispers against heated scalp,

a touch that sends tremors,

each strand feels like baggage,

a reminder of all that burdens.

What freedom lies in the snip,

in losing weight from my crown—

a change in the air,

can it hold my memories too?