I reached behind my head and found a tangle.
My hand was caught by the net of disregard, pulled forward.
My fingers worked nimbly through with
practiced skill; muscle memory.
I found another tangle, closer to my skull and quicker to annoy.
I ripped through my hair with the indifference
of a lead singer
having to sing that song again. Having to face
that mess again.
Like Sherman through Atlanta.
I could pull my hair back or leave it down.
I could give it up or rip it out.
I could let it get worse or deal with the
consequences;
like a shirtwaist factory fire,
like a broken guitar string,
like a metaphor for my anxiety. I’m tangled up.