Sunday

I was born on a Monday,
Always first in line,
I wrote with a fine — pen
black letters,
on white paper,
black letters;

But watching uneven blocks
made me uneasy,
the way they
fitted together
like a row of houses
on the blue lines
that ran across my paper
blue lines
that tired to define
the borders of my mind;

But they should have known
I was born of the sea —
She was afraid of the deep
but there she dug
from dearth
the earth
found
on her own
volition —
Mama said
you are not
the victim of
condition —

So I step in the shower
and let the cool water run,
and there, I wash the weight of
yesterday — out of my hair,
down
the curve
of my spine
and watch it
stream away —

A release —
Silent peace —
To shed away
The pain of yesterday,
The pain in my chest
and in my mind
watch it all
fall
to
the
ground
leaving behind,
the memories of love,
and how I felt,
every moment —
— every minute —
every moment —
the feeling in it.

– the poem I wrote to myself when I chopped off my hair — on a Sunday

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