I spread my hair across the ocean of
your skin and cast it out upon the wide
open bed. A net of brown fibres and
knotted curls. The rippling sheets bob
my head. Your body is turning over.
I once fucked a guy who later told me
he didn't understand why women cut off all
their hair, wear it short. What's the point
he asks seriously. Men need something
to hold on to. There is no room
for statements like that in my sea.
His body was later found dashed
against headboard cliffs.
But you wake up with curls wrapped
around your toes in the morning,
tickling the right side of your cheek,
even in the pockets of your clothing.
You gather this net in your arms,
place it in the bow of my chest and
tell me my weary head doesn't need
all that added weight.
Hannah Maiorano has always written in some form or another her entire life. Her work has previously been published in Snapdragon, The Closed Eye Open, Wingless Dreamer, and more. When she isn't writing, she loves to make miniatures, visit art galleries, and hang out with her two cats and fiancee in downtown Toronto.
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