My feet curled up in clumps and curls
of my previous life
As it drains and swirls, my tresses, my curls
I quit
Who is is that I am? Maybe you can tell
Am I being conformed, transformed, has my
Personhood been stormed, what about my will
was I defaced
and replaced, by someone fatter
less great
who can’t relate
Or is it just hair
My immaturity is running free
Not even strangers will let me be
I am at once a spectacle, who does not want to be seen
just for looking
normal
What was hiding, in the clumps and curls
that litter my bathroom floor
Can I dance and twirl, like I used to
Or am I just going to be ignored
Was it an external reflection of my interior design
Maybe it was just protection,
did I ever actually shine
Or was it the glitz and rings that once adorned?
Is my shackled personhood tied in tresses
related to the stresses, in the clumps and curls
that litter
my bathroom floor
Who is that stranger in the mirror?
What does he want? Who is he for?
Just hair, my ass
Clumps and curls of matted personhood
litter my floor,
Like Job of Old, I think He wants more
but I hope this moment of self-defeating denial,
is fleeting, and doesn’t last
for awhile
Because that person in the mirror isn’t interesting or unique anymore
that person is clumps and curls
that litter
my bathroom floor
