The scientists will tell you
my hair is not “true hair.”
You assume they are right.
What I use to save myself is
a misnomer. They are,
technically, right. What I use
What I use to save myself is
a misnomer. They are,
technically, right. What I use
to survive is a misnomer;
a murder of self for survival.
The work is called "urticating."
Not my usual weaving.
Not my usual body.
Not my usual survival.
Not my usual weaving.
Not my usual body.
Not my usual survival.
My hair is a defense mechanism.
When threatened, a simple kick;
prestige and panache!
Presto: the trick β
hair as needles.
Presto: the trick β
hair as needles.
When the hand first extended
itself to me, I took gentle steps.
Prayed to rend my body docile,
soft as “hair” implies, all while
waiting for:
"crush"
"stone"
any singular word β
"stone"
any singular word β
whatever implement they could
end me with. Every follicle
frizzles to bristle; knows
how easily βhandβ
translates itself
into fist.
Is it naivety or suicide
to ignore the warning signs?
Is it faith or wishful thinking
to brush off fear?
Is it “God” or “Instinct” which
rules the body?
This time, it was you.
This time, it was me.
This time, it was me.
This time, gentle palms.
This time, peach fuzz.