To the Scalp

 

Would you like it a little shorter?

The scissors are poised for my reaction,

flashing in the reflection like the glint of the sun

and I, ready to photosynthesize myself 

into metamorphosis.

Gods, I should have said yes. 

Let the whisper slither itself out, 

untangling from my innards. 

I should have said yes. 

Should have asked 

for a razor and some faith. 

Let the strands of my 

self-induced femininity 

fall to the linoleum like 

October snowfall. 

Too early, I suppose, 

I had to wait for my season.

 

Now, the buzz beneath my skin

is echoed only by 

the clippers pressed against my scalp. 

A femme settled in 

the space betwixt your lies, 

my chin held higher 

for this levity, this lightness. 

I wish that little one – 

the one who shakes their heavy head

and lowers their eyes in smothered shame – 

could see me now. 

 

I still find remnants of that distant child, 

long hairs woven into sweaters well-worn, 

and know it is time for them 

to find a new place to call home.