metamorphosis

1AM

your heart floods the eerie silence with its unsteady drum, announcing itself to the world.

bathroom tile cold under your bare feet. the buzz of the overhead light.

should you? should you not?

…

what if it looks terrible?

your hair hangs longer when wet. heavy. your shirt slides off one shoulder, with dark patches where your damp hair lays. a shiver ripples down your spine.

it’s time for a change. rebirth. rejuvenation.

you grab your dull scissors, with their timid blades. probably not the right kind for this.

whatever.

you begin. the first whisper of severance—liberation.

you snip. here, there, everywhere. 

hair litters the tile.

2AM

your syncopating pulse contrasts with the rhythmic surrendering of keratinous strands. 

you wonder

what is the point of all this?

force the belief, it is all part of the turning point in your life. trust in yourself.

you’re a different girl now. one hardened by-

by what exactly?

the world’s ugly. the sadness you have consumed. the gore you have seen.

yes. that is what has calloused you.

more hair gravitates toward the floor.

your head starts to feel lighter now. so do your shoulders.

and your heart.

an unexpected muscle memory kicks in. you know what you’re doing.

where to cut, how much to cut, like internal autopilot.

you were meant to do this.

no you weren’t.

it looks terrible. everyone will laugh. why the hell would you—

you cut through those thoughts.

3AM

your heartbeat matches the monotonous drum of your surgical clicks of subtraction.

you are calm. your body is calm.

but your mind is not.

your head, as lightweight as it feels, remains replete with those intrusive thoughts.

an unwelcome parade of darkness.

you feel finished with your barbering. look up in the mirror and see the remains.

your hair caresses your shoulders, barely touching.

shorter than ideal..

but it will do.

you feel nothing but the coldness creeping up the pads of your feet.

not peace, but adjacent.

it sets in, what you have done.

the heart continues its cadence through the stages of slumber. 

…

10AM

palpitations shudder through your ribcage, devoid of the repose present only mere hours before.   

you enter the living room, revealing your masterpiece.

relatives, gathered for the holidays, stare.

you taste the disapproval in the air. fixed eyes, reproachful looks, and concerned glances.

yet silence blooms.

they know better than to say much to you.

no one would understand why this is necessary.

despite the dull scissors, despite the cold tile, despite the sacrifice of sleep.

it’s better that way. 

let their happiness and the utopia they live in shield them from

the world’s true identity.

LOST TRACK OF TIME—

you feel nothing, only the frigid numbness in the heart.

you can be the exception. 

1. you will be the exception. 

the one who witnessed. the one who endured. the one who knows.

the one with the short hair, knowing hands, and the heart that finally, finally slowed down.