Did you know I cut off all of my hair for you?
Took my grandmother’s little old sewing scissors
and chopped from the roots until my kitchen sink
was full of chestnut angel wings. I’m practically
bald now, still reaching for what I’ve destroyed.
That’s what you said, right? I destroy. I’ve
got a wildfire mouth, hands that are always breaking
the rules. And don’t think I’m out there looking
for you, waiting to throttle you or break your cowardly
bones. Because I know that’s how you like to think
these days. That I destroy. That I keep too much
for myself. That I’m too hungry. That I’m insane.
But I want you to listen, boy: I’m at the other end
of this telephone with a spark between my teeth.
Maybe I do destroy. Maybe I’ve got a Bermuda Triangle
belly. But at least I can accept that. And you know,
maybe I lied. Maybe I didn’t cut off all of my hair
for you. Maybe I cut it all off for myself.
I’m calling it beautiful malfunction.
I’m calling it rooted beginning.
I’m calling it fresh start.
Lydia Havens writes and lives in Tucson, Arizona. She works as the Executive Poetry Editor of Transcendence Magazine and as an intern for Spoken Futures, Inc. Her work has been published in FreezeRay Poetry, burntdistrict, and Words Dance, among other places. Lydia is an Aquarius and her hero is Leslie Knope. You can find her on Twitter at @lydiastormborn
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