When I brush my hair
I notice these days
I lose more than before
comes out in small fits
like my temper used to
my nails don’t grow long
the way they once did
and there’s no one whose eyes
I want to scratch out
my legs are smooth
as a baby these days
and there’s no one I want
to wrap them around
my lips don’t lie
the way that they used to
and there’s no one
that I want to bite anymore
I look at the hair
from my brush in my fist
and these days I notice
I’m coming apart
in small bits
and I realize soon
I’ll disappear
before my own eyes
and there's no one I want
to save me from that.