I cut off my hair. [TW]

When they ask you what you took from this, tell them you took my body first and tonight I gave you my hair, coiled up like a child’s ringlets. Put them in a body bag, I have no use for pleasantries beneath this chill; I am submerged and cannot elicit a response from my own hands other than to replicate these daily deaths in the hope of exhaustion. “Petty boys like you get raped,” he says to me as we drink solitary, alone, in our reflection: Despair, my brother. We are reunited like lovers after war (they don’t tell you it takes years to rebuild a city).

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