I never know what to do with my hair.
It falls flat over my head like a veil,
mourning my lack of ability.
I try ponytails, and feel embarrassed
for not running free over the sand.
I venture into beach waves,
and I come away with burnt fingers.
It’s when she first curls her fringe
that I notice a tension at the top of my chest.
Her face is paler than before,
and her eyes shine so blue I think I’m drunk
in that teenage way, on WKD
or salt water.
I start to wonder how long I have looked at the curves of her body
rather than the clothes decorating them.
She smiles wickedly,
like she knows when I lost my virginity
or how I’m going to die.
Dirty blond and shining.
The ends of her hair tickle my imagination
until one day, bored and panting hard,
I take the scissors to my own.
Rachel Bruce is a poet from Hitchin, UK. Her work has appeared in The Telegraph, Second Chance Lit, Eye Flash Poetry, Eponym Magazine, The Daily Drunk Mag and The Hysteria Collective.