Hair

Dirty fiber optic chords

clumped into burnt hemp rope:

hair. Each dead cell strand a

weak wisp of my fragile femininity.

Male friends, almost-loves

drape banners of caution over meβ€”β€œMen like

Their women with long locks.”β€”

but I ache to tear off the dirty blonde titles

and watch them flutter to the floor between

silver blades.