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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