ripping out my follicles, locks of reprehensible

dead skin cells all arranged in a melodramatic pattern

we vacuously decided to name ‘hair’

that is what poetry is

plucking apart your DNA

the sting you feel which quickly resides

into your subconscious

and in your palms sits a golden shimmer

a small part of your whole

But within that microscopic faction

lays a traumatic story

of where you have been

and why you ripped your hair out

in the first ******* place

and sometimes, when the day is too hot

and eggs are cooking on sidewalks

melted popsicle residue on your fingers

a small melodic voice behind your ear

will whisper

“tear it all out”

and sometimes we listen

I think once we begin to obey the commands

from a disembodied voice

we begin to self destruct

with all our precious curls writhing on the ground

but that’s what you need to sacrifice

if you want to write your *******

heart out

your sanity for your poetry

your hair for relief from the heat

an eye for an eye,

if you will