transplant
the sound of hair being ripped out
reminded me of velcro shoes
being hastily removed I hadn’t
realised it possible
that I might grow into kinder
ownership of my own looks
that I could one day have been fine
with baldness but it seemed to me
at seventeen that I was being
unmanned and that my unlived youth
was already receding
so I paid a doctor thousands
to take a strip of hair from the back
of my head pull out each follicle
and put them into the front
to give me the line I thought would
make me happy and stitch the skin
on the back of the skull together
leaving me with this grimace
this equator this scar
that catches the cold weather hold
sit deep inside reminder
of my vanity tideline
of Canute tattoo of the time
I couldn’t live with what I was becoming
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