My Boyfriend Took Me to the Barber

I cut some weight off my shoulders yesterday.

I stood on my toes to kiss you after,

and my feet floated up to the clouds.

With my lips anchored to yours, I walked around

on the orange and pink rind of

the giant peach as it set in the West.

I felt the warmth of it’s rays on the nape

of my neck when it rose this morning.

I lifted my chin from my chest, bounced along

a busy crosswalks, and smiled at strangers.

I finally took some weight off my shoulders,

and wondered why I’d held it for so long.

Someone asked too much of me,

and I lost myself trying to grow flowers

despite being a fern.

I stood up straight for the first time in years.

It takes too much to upkeep the superficial image

of beauty. I’ve trimmed the rigid barriers

that tethered me to a past version of myself.

I am a daughter, sister, girlfriend and partner—

and I refuse to perform the part how they want.

I found the strength to cut ties with my

old lifestyle—one of obeying the voices

in my head, conforming to the wishes of

others. I woke intrepid, unyielding.

A windmill on a cloudless day.