weighing-in

Fourteen-year-old me only weighed herself post-shower,
shivering sopping wet skin held to a number's power.
Trimming nails and cleaning ears could only do so much,
so I made the big chop, 13 inches of curls soft to the touch.
A faultless logic I’d disorderly imagined,
on the scale that night, crying with my hair wet and matted,
devastated that my drastic attempt to make myself small,
just barely, no, hardly, made any difference at all.

This is an older poem that I recently revised. I’m not sure how I feel about rhyming generally in my own poetry, but it feels like practice for something I haven’t decided yet.

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