Hair Tied Up in Madness —Marysa Writes

My hair is a prelude to my mental illness,
an introduction to the dissatisfaction with stability within me;

The first time I ever dyed my hair, I was sixteen,
a peak in the development, rather lack thereof;
my brain once a high-functioning factory,
now a run-down fun house,
cracked mirrors replacing every assembly line
that used to cycle through its daily quota.

The last time I dyed my hair,
it was just a month after cutting away a weathered ceiling,
dipping and bowing against the weight
of years drowned in this disorderly environment.
The sight of the goldengrass speckled chunks falling
to an unkept, unswept floor, sent shockwaves
down my spine, leaving behind a buzzing sensation
of power that having control over change contains.

But now, I plan to let my hair grow natural;
I’ve lived in the looney bin for as long as I can remember,
and despite the wallpaper being molded,
and the ground not being made of marbled granite,
it is a place I’ve found comfort in, a home with hope;
There are renovations to be had, new memories to be made,
and aspirations to attain.

Without revealing too much —Marysa Writes

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