Today, my hair is jazz—
wild coils improvising in the wind,
syncopated with no apology.
It scats when I walk,
riffs when I laugh,
and plays the truth off-key
because it knows perfection
never wrote a song worth singing.
Yesterday, it was a sonnet:
tight bun, precise,
each strand obeying metre,
a form I wore to keep from unravelling.
There is comfort in structure,
even if it strangles,
even...
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