sob story (1)

when i was six, i cut my hair

in the bathroom mirror, with red safety scissors

right before the school bus arrived

because i couldn’t wash the soap from my hair

no matter how hard i tried

and i remember the chill in my bones when i realized

my body’s sovereign state was mine and mine alone

so i tucked the lock of hair behind my ear

and googled how to make it grow back as soon as i got home

i tried your snake oil and your wishful thinking

with my best open mind

ignored my mom, when she rolled her eyes

and you lied to me, google! you fucking lied!

so welcome to my sob story

in which i am tired of being the protagonist

because i never wanted to be famous

i just didn’t want to die alone

and i guess that wikihow told me

if i had pretty hair, or the perfect body

then maybe i’d finally feel at home

in the skin and bone you stole from me

but it doesn’t work

it never does

because the silver bullet you promised would fix me

was a plastic necklace from the dollar store

but if you call that empowerment

i’ll buy it every fucking time

and tell myself that i’m the problem

while i chip the paint off the beads

and watch them roll onto the floor

i will bang my head against the brick wall

and dig into the floor with a plastic spoon

rather than taking the door, which is… open

because the thing about this prison

is that most days, i don’t even want to leave anymore


Ok, I have this vague idea for a poetry book called Sob Stories–tell me you can’t see that. Idk, I’ve been thinking about trying to write a poetry chapbook a lot of late.

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