What the Body Releases

Today, as my hair falls in fistfuls. In the shower, to the floor, my bed, winding itself within the fabric of my clothing. An attempt for it to return home—to my body or some resemblance of what I could be. What I ought to be. What I imagine is a delicate mimicry of symbols and codex, only I translate from longing.

But what is a body if not a house always leaving itself? Each strand a letter I never learned to read. Mother used to say hair holds memory—which is why we cut it after grief. But mine falls without ceremony, without asking. It pools in the drain like black ink, like a language dissolving before it can name what hurts.

I gather what's left from my pillowcase. Hold it to the light. Through the window, a bird builds its nest with stolen threads. Perhaps this is how we continue—not in the keeping, but in the letting go. My body, a library burning quietly. Each follicle a small goodbye. And somewhere, in another life, I am still whole. I am still home.