my hair is a weapon, is a shield, is a badge, is a

chart of all the things I call myself

I’m a feminist, so I’ll leave the house with overgrown legs

I am a dyke, short sides and back, because a barber costs less, but so does denial

I am desirable, strawberry blond curls frame the face of the virgin, the obedient, the 

back of the chair presses into me

as my nails dig deep into the nylon armrests and we say

all of it

the buzzing clippers slide behind my ear 

down above my eyes 

sounding in my chest and at last

I am weightless