a conscious decision to prune
that went too far,
and suddenly the veil's pulled back --
too high! too high! --
And there it is, exposed:
the forehead I inherited,
and all the fear and distaste
come tumbling in,
the memories,
the belief in my own
unloveability
because she'd not been loved,
and couldn't love in turn.
I pull, and pull,
and still the hairs
will only grow at their usual pace.
I wish I could resist
the tug of the mirror,
but everywhere I turn,
there's her reflection --
that high bright moon,
trapped between the branches --
and I keep looking, a hungry child;
keep hoping:
does she love me yet?
Does she love me yet?
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