“She’s cut your hair, it used to wrap

around you, a fragrant rope, a silken

stream, I’d climb it right into

your cold tower, then kiss

it, stroke it, comb it—


that withered old hag,

how could she do that?”


I got tired of all that brushing,

that mass that restrained my running

away, the endless shampoos,

the constant care: I didn’t,

I won’t—


it was me who gave the witch

the scissors, but I left the hair,

golden, lifeless, for you—you

always liked it better.


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