[A prose poem]

I used to have long hair. I chopped it off. It bothered me.
       But I was also numb, and sometimes ardent; I reserved my anger in patient and bursting wine skins. I was sad and didn't know it.
      Listen, I'm not the same. I'm sorry. I now have posters on the walls of my room. And I still pick pieces off my lip, but I wear chapstick too. And I've started to drink coffee again, with sugar. And I've also learned some french, Je m'excuse.
      What page number were we in? All I know is I'm not there anymore. I've known you through some invincible years, but I'm starting to see the fray. Like split ends.
      I'm not good with scissors though. This is not a threat, you need to know that. Because I'm not good with scissors. Please know that.
      And know that I still love you– that's still the same. But, here, I am this, I am this. This is who I am. Is that okay?