It seemed a more definite way out.
The clarity of disaster is more satisfying
Than rambling goodness, and all that
There’s a reason people return to
Poison, and I’d rather be a full
Wreck than a half anything.
I wished for pomegranate flames,
And I got them, faint smile briefly
Illuminated. Hair burns.
Unlike everything that chooses to die
Without ceremonial elegance,
To singe and not combust.
I’ve always loved the burnt parts of food.
I take an attraction to scraps.
So when I burnt my locks off,
I didn’t think of throwing them out
Or trimming the ends.
The thoughts came
Late: what will people say?
Who will think me insane?
How many will turn their shifting backs on me?
And I thought, no, no,
I’m leaving that with the ashes.
I’ll leave even you with the ashes.
If people come by to pay their
Stiff respects and jaded sympathies,
To point and say “look, poor girl set
Fire to her own hair,”
I can spit back and say don’t you know,
I won’t die without a flame. I’d take this
Over your watered-down blood
And your poor hollow bones.