On Cutting Your Hair
By nancy_am
Sun, 12 Sep 2004
- 1098 reads
The blade draws near.
Cold metal warming itself,
On the satin of your hair
As it carves into each strand,
One by one,
As they fall away
Spreading over the ground below.
You come away -
A part of you missing,
Swept away into the torrent,
And the ghost of an ache
As though the cutting
Had drawn blood.
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