Brush Stroke

Sitting on top of your head, I grow. I grow often.

And then you brush me with your brush, and I fall out.

Or at least you think I fall out, but I’m still here, beneath your scalp, waiting to be reborn.

Sometimes you flush me down the toilet, or leave me stranded on the floor for days, sometimes weeks.

How is it that you do not see me there, or hear my crying, for something other than this mundane existence… watching, waiting, for something—anything to happen?

My sisters and I, when we do enjoy a few days, or weeks, or months actually on top of your skull…

Withstand the damage of the heat

Your childhood, mental anguish

Your egomaniacal disease

taken out on the physical properties that make you human—

That make you a woman—

Tend to disregard the health of your cranium

Or cells

Or us, your strands

We weaken and lose momentum with every 450 degree flat iron stroke

Or every yank and pull and curl under of the large round brush—

I hope that one day you come to your senses and give it all a break

Give me a break from the constant up and down

Up and down

Up and down

Of pins and scrunchies and hair ties and clips and headbands and the like

And leave the splitting to something else

Leave the side parts

to someone else

leave the dangling strands

to someone else

to someone else

to someone else

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