i think i am going to cut my hair
because my gnarled fingers smell like young cherries from last year's april / fungal mushrooms have begun decaying over my rotten skull cracks since july / like anger over grief / my laughter is a lousy memento from last september's trampled leaves fluttering past uncomely cul-de-sacs and my edges are rotten irwin mangoes purchased from a former harvest / i'm a meager token of yore draped around my trim that i would like to chop off because somewhere it might hold a purpose / parting ways with youth, mincing off my beloved innocence / as if that would change the miserable squint in my eyes and the crumpled crest of my being
so i think i am going to cut my hair
because unsalted girlhood in the wishing wells of my collarbones has rippled away with the summer's wind and all that remains is a serenading fool with the same split-ends and stained heart / the cerulean above us tastes like sour orange peels and bittersweet midseason thrills today but my body has begun molding inside out so wholly i can hardly function without four metal cans of a tacky monster drink / my curls echo dark tapestries on gauzy fabric i would like to cast away / if the seventeen years loitering in looms and crooks of my bones have moved out then why are my room's walls the same cream texture they have been for the past ten years
yes, i am going to cut my hair
because there might be a metaphor in this / the occasional chipping away of rot on the sole of my cores with each fallen strand / departure from a filthy time gone because i can't get my hands on anything else other than my damn hair / surely not iron-rod stability and certainly not a new year's change / so i'll cut my hair and pretend as if all is right in my world
