cutting my hair for poetry

My hair is not for sale. My earlobes don’t sport price tag earrings. My breasts are not 20% off. And my ass will never be going out of business. So to the men
who comment or message and ask, “How much?” How much for a picture or a piece of me
as if woman parts can always be bought and sold. Mine are not on the market,
simply, because I have not put them there. So do not come to my outdoor yard sale
and ask to browse around my living room. That’s really weird,
and I will call the police. My hair is not for sale
because it is not a product. Instead, it is a long-time friend,
a dance partner, a security blanket,
a nightmare to brush, and most importantly,
a gift I’ve been holding onto to give to someone else. And once my hair is gone,
I will wait for the flood of new commenters who will angrily accuse me
of chopping off the best part of me and I will laugh at them
and block them and pity them
for never learning that the best parts of a woman
aren’t ones that can be cut off.

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