I suppose
maybe I fancied
that the past can grow into my hair.

That all the hands that touched it
don't wash out.
That all the lustful looks
at my childhood scalp
wove their way
into the strands.

And all of my
self-loathing and hate
attached itself
from my brain
to the roots,
and grew out into
the red.

That's probably why I cut it off
so many times.