Shears

The Polaroid is tucked in a box by the bed,

a record of the day the kitchen shears slipped.

I was sixteen with a strange, jagged head,

and a spirit that felt just as raw and unzipped.

A handful of wet, dark hair in the sink

looked like a crow that had fallen from flight.

I watched the drain swallow the mess in a blink,

while the bathroom bulb flickered a nauseous light.

I’m staring again at that gap by my ear,

ten years removed from the shame of the cut.

The mirror is showing me something I fear:

how a single bad moment can stay in the gut.