cliché musings

dear someone (or multiple someones),

(because this could apply to several of you)

i used to watch the clock tick down to your response,

the black hands circling around

moving through time. i’m forcing time to

skip forward just to see a message i know might not come.

most of the time it doesn’t. class doesn’t go any faster but i

suppose it doesn’t go any slower either and neither does my

ability to believe i don’t care anymore.

i once saw someone say by cutting their hair short,

they got rid of a piece of you. several inches that they knew

so intensely and it’s taken apart by a pair of scissors, strands

falling around a hair salon chair. it’s dead. kind of like

how i’m dead, and have stayed dead, because of you.

my hair will grow back even though i’m really dead and

those new inches will never know the sensation of

your fingers running through it. my dead spirit is somewhat

appeased by this.

it took me five years to cut my hair again. a product of

time and apathy. i wonder if the clock waits for us like we wait for it,

anticipating when we finally go through with the big change

of our lives. i’m sure it saw me in every building and asked

when the dead ends (like me–dead) were finally gonna be

separated. i don’t think i speak clock. i’m not sure why 

you liked me despite this. you finally texted when i was

done waiting for that fucking clock. sitting for my appointment.

i tell the stylist to wait so i can tell you to wait because

this takes so much time i don’t think i have.

i’m supposed to feel rejuvenated when my hair

is once again short. i think you took that away from

me. i was just mad. you never responded afterwards. the clock

moves clockwise and my hair grows longer everyday, new

people see the new roots for the first time and i wonder

if i’ll have to cut it all off again. do i ever really learn?

i don’t think i can, but i also hope you never get to see my new hair.