it's like a string gets cut
a piece of hair breaks by the will of your fingers,
or the will of your scissors,
or just all on its own
what has grown into a never ending strand of canned up regrets
forgets its necessity and splits non-aggressively,
progressively but passively
half sinks, the other floats.
not a friend notes the difference,
but you know it's there -
or rather not.
you are one hair shorter,
one tear bolder,
it's getting colder but
you wear a little less.
take a look at all the mess
you made, trying to take care of dying hair -

it's all dead anyway.

trust that it knows when to leave.
trust that you'll known when to grieve
and when the sieve has done its grimy work
someday, it might still hurt.
but you don't need to make sure
it's tucked in every night
bed story and light
rub it's back, "it's all right"
it's all right
do not bite the hand that feeds you
or feed the thoughts that bite.
it's all right.

the string stretched out too tight