Don't Cut Your Own Bangs
I’m wasting myself
on improvement, feel a watercolour creeping
across the screen
where I should recognise my own face—
pastiche is one way
to eradicate the body. I promise
I will be self-fashioning
to the remains I’ve shorn on the cold tile.
Brute of my own hair,
do I deserve betterment—do you?
I will be self-fashioning—
uh huh. Let these leftovers go their own way,
arise from the wreck
of braiding: a monument to myself.
A storm could come in—
bother this soft
trophy to life. I have mocked myself up.
I wanted so much
to undo the dolls of my childhood,
I slipped the knot
of memory instead—do not know if my crown
is crooked or some plastic
replica staring down my strongest attempt