I like cutting my hair (this is me postponing death)

[I crave for liberation] I like cutting my hair. It hurts and it’s strange at first, but I will grow. I can’t die any longer. it feels nice to see the only remainders of me falling down the drain. It’s relieving to finally see a concrete scene of my loose ends being gone. And if recreating myself is my only power, then be it. With this metal scissor I found in my father’s sink, i can destroy the whole world. I can dance in the storm I created on my own. I can shift a high leap. I can rip myself open and be found unsightly. I can be seen. My fingers can abolish something and I can invent a catastrophe. This time, I can have my glory.

[I haven’t met all of me yet] I like cutting my hair. I like to see the new figure in the mirror even though it feels like she’s mocking me for all my regrets. It is nice to think god i no longer recognize myself I have made my hair short and I wish I could do the same with my life but I don’t want my mother to be sad. The strands of my collapsing hair pluck my skin like they’re fighting in a war but this time I have enough weapon to wash them and melt them away. This time no one will call me greedy and selfish for conquering myself. This time, I will be free.

[I am yearning for a destruction but I don’t want to stain my fingerprints with blood] I like cutting my hair. I never thought I could make this much of a change in that much silence. I have been thinking about this moment since I was seven: so this is what it feels like to revolutionize in stillness. this is how you put down your anger without having someone ripping your mouth off. This is what being a girl means. the sound of this silver matter I am holding between my fingers tingles my brain as if it was my high school bell, but this time, I am coming home by myself. This time, it’s on me.

ref: “a self-portrait in letters” by anne sexton, “witch burning” by sylvia plath, “in the storm of roses” by ingeborg bachmann