One day,
I find myself
Stroking my hair.
My fingers place between three ribs,
Of my best asset.

I look down at them,
Fine and fierce and fearless.

Three ribs,
Barely cut,
And it hangs off the cage of my head.
I place my hands on either side of my head,
Trying to steady the shaking, malformed,
Ball of meat inside.

I know I'm crazy
Sad girl, mad girl,
But I need to find myself.

The scissors of my hands slice
The three ribs
Off,
They curl in brown and blonde tips.
They tangle, contort, into senseless shapes and letters,
And fall in hand.

I can feel it
When the only place I seem to exist is in my head,
It's my hair,
That lets me know I'm real.