Samridhi Girdhar/The Baron

I cut my hair, more often than most,

more extreme than I’d like—control, almost.

I think each change will shift something in me,

but regret fades quickly, like the sea.

I pierce my skin, needle, and steel,

decorate the scars so they don’t feel real.

Bleeding ink, words etched and bare,

hoping for meaning, but it’s sadness I share.

I am as I am, my life carved this way,

I can’t undo what the past made me pay.

Don’t blame me for holding this weight

my childhood vanished in a blink, perhaps it was fate.

Maybe I should sleep; these late nights harm,

maybe tomorrow, I’ll wake up calm.

Maybe my hair will grow soft and sweet,

my words less bitter, my heart with a beat.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

I’ll fold my clothes, sweep worries away.

Perhaps my mind won’t be as cluttered and dim,

because maybe tomorrow, I’ll finally begin.