Yesterday I cut a gathered lump of hair off of my head
and all around me were the tendrils
and the tail I held in my hand I thought I might save.
Nicky told me "If you think it's so weird, then stop doing it"
But I kept the hair I didn't mean to lose.
Like I did my first night in jail,
after Chris,
When they gave me a comb and threatened to shave me,
I kept a ball in the pocket of my stripped shirt
then later in my underwear for safer hiding.

The box of long blonde braids,
and a thick black pony tail,
and bags of blue hair
sits in my bathroom cabinet above the sink.
But the hair in my hand I discarded willfully.

It is not the memory in front of the mirror before school
with the swollen brush marks across my legs.
Nor was it standing in the dining room across from my sister and mother huddled,
across from my stepfather out of breath,
and she choosing him.

I said I'd answer, "I didn't want it on my head"
Or "It just fell out, oh my God!"
But "I'm losing my mind" burst out instead
And I guess I feel alright just yet.