washed away
the purple-stained water runs down me:
first my back
then my hips
then my unshaved legs—
contouring me into shapes I hate.
It washes me away
and spirals down the drain,
leaving behind the bleached strands
which I can't yet see
but of whose being I am wholly aware.
The roots remain colored,
but have faded to a dull red—
no longer bright,
their little luster remaining
serves only to emphasize
what is no longer and
what never was.
Maybe I'll pay once more—
too much money
to renew my individuality;
again placing faith in fleeting vibrancy.
or maybe I'll keep the faded locks
and bear the weight
of this terrible reminder
that I cannot make myself like clay.
(NOTE: Repost because I tried to edit a single line and somehow deleted the bottom half of the post without noticing, causing it to get removed)
Posted Jul 10, 2022, 9:02 PM UTC · edited