three. root

three. root

i am thirteen.
i run my hands through my hair and
search for the perfect strand. it is coarse, thick,
and feels wiry as i run it between my fingers. i climb
towards my scalp and feel it again,
from root to tip
from top to bottom
from bottom to top
from tip to root.
i give it a gentle tug, feeling the follicle pull at the
soft skin of my cranium. i pluck it out
hard, leaving a tiny, unnoticeable hole in my head.

(my grandmother liked to sit by the fire and sew. once, she took red thread and sewed a rose into her thigh. i remember the small, wet sound of the blood dripping against the floorboards. she kept going until no flesh was left.)

i run it through my lips, and feel the bumps in my
keratin against my tongue. the tiny white bulb
at the root comes off between my index and thumb.
i scrape it off with my fang.
it is not the right hair, but it is close.
i wrap the hair round and round my fingers, knotting
it into a ball, and then i swallow it down
like a cat.

(m)other purrs and takes my hand in hers. she
presses my palm to the cold baldness of her scalp
and holds it there. there is movement
underneath. (she wants me to
open her up and climb
inside.)

i start again.

(by fourteen i will be smooth all over.)

3. (they do not grow hair. the follicles never erupt from the skin.)