The girl next to me cries as the hairdresser cuts.
Sometimes change is chosen yet
loss hurts no less.
Since we cannot refuse pain
we dwell on the When
To maintain the illusion of control.
I’m tempted to remind the wailing girl that nothing is permanent,
That hair grows back.
I want her to know what I know:
that it is just a matter of time.
but she already does:
and it is time that is the matter.
Knowledge is not enough
to combat abandonment’s conditioning.
Prolonged exposure doesn’t necessarily numb
the sensation, a ceaseless throbbing.
At this point, stillness would be unsettling.
My hair sheds from stressing.
Delaying destruction only makes the surprise more severe so
I ask the hairdresser to buzz it off
and practice indifference.
I am the master of change.
Hair knows nothing of mortality so I do not cry.
Instead, my tears flow free for all I’ve cut that will never grow again.
The generations of flower buds I denied a blossom.
Am I forgetful or simply careless?
My shadow follows me through the light
As a reminder of the wilt waiting for me in the dark.
Debris rumbles inside my steel stomach
My music of misery ringing out from me like a bell.
Everywhere I go I parade my opera of echoes,
leaving parts of me everywhere.