When my hair stopped growing
I trimmed it,    snapped
broken ends into
split personalities
remembering               at the root: the person I dreamed
I was capable of becoming
one day.

My ragged ends grow shorter
curling
back to my scalp
seeking            freedom on the breeze
refuge              on the warm side of my skin.

 Each follicle burrows into my skull
finding            nutrients          Sun-In and supplements
never offered.

When I’ve lost it         all,
my real hair climbed back
into the soft space
where futures once lived
& holding only pasts
& dandruff

I touch myself
run my fingers through           breaths
taken decades ago.

I spread my hands over my naked face
& listen to the strands
curling behind my eyes,          nose,
glottal stop.

I know now they were never meant
for outside.
They preferred blood, mucus,             neurons—
placental home lost     when I fell
head first
hair first
into this unceasing
unmerciful
light.

Marisca Pichette’s work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Fireside Magazine, Room Magazine, SNACK, and Plenitude Magazine, among others. She lives in Western Massachusetts, collecting bones and listening to the trees.