A/N: I'm really not a poet, which is why this merges into prose at points. But I've really tried to do some interesting word choice, not be too cliché, and get a feeling of empowerment across. Hopefully at least some of this has worked.
I look down at the chest.
Sometimes they're my friends. They keep me company.
But more and more these days
My hair scratches at my neck.
My ears stick out.
Or push it up all funny.
The dysphoria at the hairdressers really did it in.
The middle aged TV detective who just happens to be the man on screen -
I could be him one day.
Shetland jumper, crumpled jeans, nondescript mop:
I put that image on myself.
The extra is edited out.
But my dumpster fire is missing and I feel alone.
Like when the wind is so cold it's like you don't even have trousers on. There's ice on the back of your thighs and you feel like anything could happen next.
My hair is my comfort blanket, draped across my back when I'm a wee boy frightened of the world, when I'm curled up on my windowsill, staring down at my street.
And wondering where I go next.
Love for it is the closest thing I own to self-validation.
My hair is my best friend.
My hair is me.