Honest mane

Sometimes my wedding ring

Tears a few strands of the hair

I grew out for you

Pulling it back for the hundredth time

Away from sticky little hands

Threads falling to the floor

To be swept up later

And though they grow back

It’s starting from scratch

Little newborn curls

Among tired lady strands

Strange and mismatched

As the tight bun reveals

Deciding which are more honest

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