hair

there was so much
hair on the floor.
came home from school one day,
put scissors to pony tail
and became a free woman.
tried sleeping with a boy a week later
but he lamented his inability to get a firm grip
on my recently shaven head.
other lovers have repeated this sentiment,
arguing for the benefits of lengthy hair
during sex.
i argue for the irony of such a belief.
my father told me
men like women with long hair.
i stayed silent,
but kept cutting.

there was so much
hair on the floor.
returned home from ohio,
left bags still packed on the living room floor,
set out to rid myself
of excess weight, and
became a free man.
hats and eyes sit differently
on this head.
they are bigger,
and want to know
what i have done
with all the parts of me
that dictate their impression.
don’t know what to make
of the person
with breasts bound as tightly as stereotypes,
and hair
that does not give away
even an inch of history.

there was never much
of me
in those piles on the floor;
only a million tiny pieces of salt
in one giant, gaping wound,
chains to the woman
i could never be.