Bound tight, well put-together.

Bright, energetic, sorted. Neatly parted.

All the best things. On the outside.

Pretty, thick, tight, together

At least that’s how it appears

On the outside.

And then a chink emerges

Crack. Flaw. Fault.

Like a stray hair, in a perfectly coifed top knot.

A glimmer of softness, a hint of give

in a knotted perfection.

Hidden. Afraid to be seen.

Wound up. Trying to stay still.

Closed. Just the flip side of all those best things.

On the inside.

Red hot anger, auburn-tinged jealousy

Flanked with the obvious tussle of power

And requisite neutral hue?

Oh that’s to feign benignity.

Touch, I urge you

Take the strands in your hands, part them.

Look within. See what makes you, you.

Peek. At what lies hidden beneath

the perfectly kept bonds that stifle you

Wound over and over, like the number eight.

Reflect. Nudge. Poke. Prod.

And someday, some way, find the strength to tug

Unravel. Come undone in a blithering mess

And know, that you are just as wonderful.

Bright, colourful, energetic. Beautifully undone.

But wonderful. Iridescent. Free.

Inside and out.