The Hair Mistress

I am a whore
And I sleep with silence.
“Hush” hissing from fickled lips,
And whispers creeping up
bare, brotheled backs.
“Too much hair,” I say
Dry, inconstant strands,
Adulterated by wild waves
Of faithless pull.
Pluck the strays
Of my unconditioned worth
And I will be the same.

In the night, I am quiet
As I depart from each sliver
Of sensual thread,
Dragged from the perfidious places
My spoiled cunt has boiled
And set aside to rot in a bag
Of hourglass sand. Please
Tickle time with my feathered ends
Split in multifarious twos.
Cut and chop, a barber’s tune.

Detangle my wrists from the kinks
Of man’s knots
And take my lockes and bury them.
I am a maiden.
Let me dream through my tears.

11/5/14