You say my hair is too long,
That it covers my beautiful face.
You say I should do something with it:
Put it up,
Tuck it behind my ears,
Cut it.
But it feels too much like hiding,
And I'm not ready to be found.

You always yell at me
For leaving it laying dormant at the bottom of the shower,
Sick skeletons of worms covering a petrified snow.
They're too dirty,
And I need to pick them up
And flush them down the toilet.
But sometimes I don't remember.
I forget that I'm falling out everywhere:
In the wind,
On the floor,
Between the cushions,
Within my clothes.

Maybe it's my subconscious way
Of shedding myself.
And someday I'll have no hair,
And then you can see my beautiful face.