I’m going to cut my hair.

They say that when a woman cuts her hair,
she stands on the threshold of another life.

I sever mourning’s braid,
loosen the knot of expectation,
trim guilt’s fraying ends.

I feel the weight fall away;
in the dark soil of my scalp
the root quickens, eager to bloom otherwise.

No one hears
the clean report of a single strand—
to me, a door that slams fear outside.

Each lock drifting to the floor
settles a debt for every time
I answered “yes” when my marrow meant “no.”

I bare the nape of my neck
so winds I never knew may whistle over it,
and rain may christen me without credentials.

I cut my hair, and they murmur: grief,
they whisper: heartbreak,
they diagnose: passing madness.
Yet this madness is a hinge:
it swings the door wide and leaves it so.

I shatter the worn-out circle,
step across a line still wet with ink;
through the fissure of farewell a vigilant shoot rises.
I reset the cycle,
inhale, stand tall—I begin again.

I’m going to cut my hair.