Poetry Mondays: Shedding

Seasons come in cycles, as does hair repair – and loss. 

There, there

Brown hair

Go as you were.

I scrape you up

Piling you into

My palms;

I guess it’s that


I hold the clump


It weighs nothing,

But means everything.

I watch it falling

When I wash;

It circles the drain

Forming a blanket.

I bend and gather –

I dump it.

As my hair dries

I see stray strands.

I free them –

Plucking them

One by one.

I don’t dare

Brush my hair.

I want to spare

Myself from the


I avert my eyes

From the barren patches

And fighting tuffs

Of hair.

You know what’s happening,

There’s no need

To stare.

But for now, I grieve.

Shedding is symbolic –

My body is at breaking point;

Stressed and under strain.

Things snap

And I


Only to find my brown hair


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