a ritual, an oath

These scissors hold the 

million pragmatic things

I have harvested,

so ugly, so ripe with the most tender hatred

only a girl looking at herself in the 

mirror could comprehend.

And that mirror is broken

but i am one with the mirror;

trying to pick up the pieces of 

each girl i’ve been,

 within one body,

all of them are lurking around

with blood on their hands

of a crime committed

and the proudest of smiles,

and it’s getting too loud in 

my head

for them to hang around.

Cutting my hair has felt 

like murdering

sections of me;

But long hair has never

suited me,

so for as long as i exist 

I'll keep it short, 

there will be no alibis or

reasons to mourn 

Who I was;

Only the imminent realization of how

now my fingers thread my locks so 

easily.