I need a haircut.
An idealistic version of myself
my ends not dead, though filled with character.
An undercut.
To loose all ideas that itch the back of my neck, not touching -
paranoia then fills the gap to create a leash.
under control by not the owner, but the dog, dragged to the park which i dont want to play in. i roll in the dirt not out of pleasure, but instant reflix. bury myself in the ground. scratch that, bury myself in the ever so flat hair on my head.
Maybe a bob?
Sweaters will then warm my neck year round.
Holding it close, a comfort for when I forget how to speak. if i do speak, i dont like speaking.
What if I shaved my head?
Gave no room for rainy days to burn my eyes, giving me party conversation nobody sticks around to hear.
not allowing sleek wet strands to mumble for me.
I would be sam.
not the brunette that hangs (herself)
around a blonde.
Maybe once I get a haircut-
I'll remember
everything
under my thick, layered
(skull.)
