Summer Rain

 The first time I cut my hair short was against my will.

I was eleven.

It was the first time I felt fear about my appearance, and the first time I started silencing my heart from shame.

That year I cried in the basement and played in the summer rain.

The second time I cut my hair short was to make a wild decision for myself.

I was seventeen.

It was the first time boys were finally showing me attention, and the first time I fell in love.

I was desperately flinging my heart at anyone who would catch it, craving companionship.

That year I had my heart broken and played in the summer rain.

I have cut my hair short again, on a well thought desire.

I am twenty five.

I now know the names to my sorrows like I know the name of my haircuts. A blunt bob. Feathered layers. A shag.

I carry my heart with my now, as a guide and companion. It is the first time I can really hear its voice.

This year, I make peace with my body and write this poem while I play in the summer rain.