My fingernails are jagged, like a handful of split ends.
Conditioner lathers self-consciously,
and I think of hopes reclaimed when strangers speak your name.
when you have little else
but cardboard after cardboard
tissue paper rolls
because you wince
from the nippy old static
we feel when discarding
all that could be.
You look at the flower you’ve drawn, one petal too big.
Mistakes give life to waking up early,
and I fear, yet welcome these quivering follies.