This is a poem that I wrote about growing up.

I’m tired of these little girl curls…(inevitable)
And the music is getting to me again.
Why do I insist on finding new places?
Soon there will be no new places to find
Deep, hollow-sounding bells…could I hide,
Could I beg to be inside?
Games take place in my reality
And I know they shouldn’t be so real to me
Yet I allow them to control me sometimes.
I’m haunted.
Porcelain shards and I wish I could forget
Unbreakable, am I?
Why did you come back…didn’t you see that I
Was happy in my delusions?
Maybe I could try a different approach
Show me the reason?
I will go mad.

And with the scissors…these little girl curls…
Fall to the ground in silent commemoration.

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