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.
