WEEDS— a trichotillomania poem

brianne allen
Aug 24, 2017 · 2 min read
eacuna/pixabay

my sheets smell like fire from when i traded flesh for honey in the third grade
i poured all of the love i had in my heart into a cup for you — used it to condition your hair
almost perfect, you told me, but not enough

i gave you my own locks then
simple strands at first
couldn’t braid them together
could pretend they didn’t exist

then i ran out of things to make casual
had to rip and tug and stuff my hair into your skin
you say that you look like a corn husk doll and tell me i’m doing very well

there are bits of me on my bathroom floor, knots of me under my pillows

i feel pretty like this
less heavy
spread thin
like the complexities of my spirit are spread across an ebbing sea, flowing and forgotten
the hornets in my head are dormant
i feel peaceful like this
more asleep
less jittery
hands don’t shake, just pull

lost half of my eyebrow in homeroom but they don’t like me there anyway so i brush the hair off my desk and head to the water that laps over my scars and pulls at my scalp

it is cool and convinces me that i am still the love that no longer lives in my chest — that i am sweetness overflowing

oh i’m fine

this cycle is a nice distraction
hair over blades, hair over pills

unsent text to mom:
i mean it isn’t important really…
just grows from inside then out

weeds on a wall.

)

Written by

student // black witchy writer // i tweet @brianne_na // http://briannewrites.weebly.com

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