Inches
Every time I get my heart broken I cut my hair. I want to cut off inches upon inches, rid my scalp of the hurtful hands that ran through my hair, every playful stroke and every aggressive pull will be erased.
I cut my hair with a full heart
no one left their fingerprints on my head. I declared an end to my pattern in front of the bathroom mirror with a pair of safety scissors
Long hair is not a sign of being loved while short isn't a sign of being lonely. I proclaim to cut off this notion and defy this idea.
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
If you or someone you know is struggling, you are not alone.
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988, 24/7. Crisis Text Line — text HELLO to 741741.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
Comments are closed for this poem.