Curtailed

These curls are a curse,

all crooked and kinky,

capricious as hell-

one day tight and slinky,

the next frizzled and fried.

A chameleon reading my tumultuous mind.

They are a collective bunch,

clumping together, climbing positive charges into the sky-

They express my moods, my hormones,

my spastic elastic. 

They curtail my every move.

They catch mosquitoes, moths and butterflies,

They are reactive to touch, to brushes and combs,

If you pull them hard, they will pound you to the curb,

They are not my fault, my doing, they came to me when I could hardly notice,

My mom tried to show me how to blow them out,

But I’m too lazy or maybe I don’t give a damn that they’re there,

poking out of my head, like me, they cease to relax,

Their circuitous path to life is exhausting but we share in that indulgence,

and even crave the chaos,

channeling potential energy,

they spiral upwards and downwards,

not neat, 

not tidy,

is how I like to be, and they will be,

just like me.