Snip
I comb out my hair -
Comb out the misery, the pain,
Letting the heartbreak drift off,
As my hair becomes smooth again.
I frown at the brush -
No, it's not enough for this pain,
Not strong enough to break,
The spider web lines of grief.
I stare at the scissors -
Quite large they are,
Good for cutting hair,
Good for cutting pain.
Snip -
And the first cut has been made,
Hair drifting to the floor,
As if reluctant to get there.
Faster now -
The pain is rising up,
And it has to go somewhere,
So it disappears in those light bundles of black silk.
My hair is short and airy -
Buoyant and blithe,
It flaunts its breezy layers,
Close, so close to my scalp.
It's not quite enough -
It only briefly quells this ache inside me,
It doesn't quite cover the suffering,
But, it will do.
