Seeds

Seeds are growing from the back of my lungs to my mouth.

To the curves of my brain, then the top of my head,

pulling out the roots of my hair with each new sprout.

Every new budding thought costs a strand of hair,

a strand of my pride.

I know hair can always grow back from the root,

as long as they surround me.

The ones with healthy, shiny hair.

The sprouts shy away in their presence,

look for spaces to hide

someplace under my skull,

crawling to the depths of my brain,

lying dead under the blanket of my unconscious.

So I let them be.

What scares them isn’t just any other horror story — it’s real,

It’s less scary to live with a head full of hair

and have a zipper for a mouth

than bald spots shining under the sun.

Seeds always reaching for the water.

Always growing.

But, that’s the thing with sprouts. They cry,

and scream, and start ripping my skin if they don’t get their way.

They yearn for a way out of my head,

they have hands that elongate and reach and hold onto my hair

for one final pull — hands that have the power

to mold my head into a bare, greasy scalp.

A scalp that shines so bright

that it bothers the people around. People who stare

with a displeased, disapproving look —

people who put on their sunglasses

and look the other way.

I guess I must let my hair grow back, mustn’t I?