seeing a little girl
on the train with long,
curly, flowing locks,
I’m reminded of how
my mother struggled
to comb my hair
when I was young – and
how very much it hurt –
so she cut it short
like a boy’s. I
always wanted
long hair
like this girl’s.

she dances unself-consciously,
twirling body and hair
with equal abandon.
I smile and try not
to hate her, stuff
my jealousy back
down inside my heart,
and get off the train.
not out of spite; it was
just my stop.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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