The Mania tells me to chop off my hair. I don’t.
I talk down the scissors
from an idea of bangs.
The clippers and I compromise on
an undercut- only mutilating
half of my head, no need
for the whole punishment. I
do not remind myself of all the knives in
the kitchen, afraid of the mob
they would become; taking
to the streets of my body, igniting
the memory of bleeding by choice. No-
I squash this rebellion before it starts,
thumb to forearm. Instead, remind
myself that I am sovereign: nothing
can remove my crown ((“Or the weight of it,”
Depression adds unsolicited, like a mother.))
I, like a mother, gift my hair the name Anchor.
A noun of its own. Depression simpers
irony//doubt//the lies we tell ourselves
My hair rebuttals “truth
is subjective at best.” and says nothing else,
no billowy language, bloated
on its ideals of forgiveness
or growth or weight. Instead, it leaves
me alone. Gifts me an allowance of mistakes
The soft joy of bad at-home hair dye.
The brisk rush of freshly cut bangs.
The gentle thrum of clippers in steady hands.