Hundreds of Them Gone

They grow long, 
coming out the same home
getting thick by each slice
rarely pulled by the core. 


There are hundreds of them, 
brushing against loose pants
pressed against leggings
getting pulled by denim.


There is neve a time, 
to soak the skin in water
to soften the suface 
before the fine blades cut the heads off. 


Then the final moment comes, 
when the feeling is heavy
when the pain drags on
when summer springs along. 


That's when the white cream appears, 
covering every inch of color
covering every strand 
like a white cloud on the surface. 


Thousands of them go down the drain, 
swirling until unseen
allowing the brightness to come back
as a gentle warm breeze kisses the skin.


The best feeling comes at night, 
right after the execution 
when a silk blanket is laid on top 
the comfort of knowing they're all gone. 


This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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