Off with Her Hair!

If I cut my hair, will they call me mad,
will they see the fracture running through me?

If I slice it all away, every strand gone,
can I be un-born, can I un-write this life—
scrub away the stains, redo that house as if it were ours,
a place to love, to be safe, un-trapped in quiet pains?

Could this quirky robe I wear be one she lovingly bought?
Could these curls I twist and nurture be ones she touched,
ones she cared for, not left alone, untangled by neglect?

Could we un-make childhood, re-stitch it soft, clean,
turn a haunted house into one where silence breathes light?

But it’s too late. I know that. We were there, you and I,
brother, marked by what couldn’t be un-broken.

What should it matter now—do these new children even know
the dark, silent screams, the chill clinging like a shroud?
We pass on shadows, echoes, but not the same wounds.

If I could go back, I would—god, I’d burn it all down,
carve into her like she carved into us,
leave her a shadow, nothing more.

Would he live then, brother? Could he un-die
if she un-lived, if she disappeared, if I un-made her, if I un-did her?

If I let the hair fall, if I go bare,
will we be whole—or do the roots run deeper,
entwined with scars, bound to a story I can never undo?