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.