city hair

And just like that, like a breath of fresh air, or a warm breeze, like the handing of summer into autumn, she disappeared. Without much of an eruption, silently, she was catapulted into the world, with her hair still on fire. What now? So as she slithers beyond alleys, she waits and braids her hair into waterfalls and forks. She’ll spin tales of what has been on these forks, and turn them into tridents. The city is noiselessly noisy, white and somehow, suddenly, holding these tridents of tales, she feels incongruent.

When the sun sets and the city’s ablaze, where will she go? Which gates will open for her now? Now unchained, she’s free to frolic and fight the night till the early hours- but the red, raw, skin on her wrists ache for the chains, somehow. Because with the chains come the tales and turbulences. So she dreams of those chains and metal, gates and fences, waking up to the taste of iron.

The next few mornings she wants to cut her fire hair- each strand maliciously weighing down on her (and she’s got her luggage for that.) So longingly, she’ll twirl her hair and twirl down her path, with the past twirling behind her. For a while, for now, she knows she’s a lizard with a chopped off tail. Left behind, it moans and wriggles. “Take me back, I beg you!”

 

So she nurtures this beautiful tail of hers, composed of all the colors she’s collected throughout the almost 24 months. Her hands trace ridges and scales and stop upon the empty spots, white, like the city, begging to be filled. “Just a little more, one more drop.” Those spots remain as they are, and both the tail and her learn to accept white as a color.

 

The day she leaves, looking down from the plane window, she can point out the treasures she’s buried and disowned on the land. She’ll see the souls down there and her, up there and all she wants to do is stitch the two worlds back together. And the past still glistens like an emerald palace, an open wound and her hair’s still ablaze, ignited like a cigarette. She’ll come back home alight, like that, glowing and dripping adrenaline. “What a wild ride it’s been.”

Time passes. She begins weaving her old world into the fresh, impatient new one. She never knew she could do that till now

 

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