Like a teenager going through a crisis
I ripped all my posters off my walls
Tore up pieces of notebook paper,
The ones where I filled the margins with hearts
I cut my hair in the bathroom
Cried loudly to something angsty played entirely too loud
And took a nap
But I'm not a teenager
And I still go through crisis, just refined.
I removed my face from the internet,
Hid great works inspired by love
Even the ones written from ache
Still, I cut my hair in the bathroom
But, no longer do I add color
No, I rinsed it all out
Settled on dishwater blonde
Dull enough to be unnoticed
Natural enough to feel like home
I'll cry quietly to something predictable in my earbuds
And clean the kitchen.