Cut my hair too short
for the Scorpio full moon,
which an app said
would hit me hard—but
so far, it’s just split ends,
dead ends, bleached ends
in the trash, where
they probably belong.
And it’s okay—
more than okay.
Nothing cracked open,
no tidal pull,
no reckoning I had to survive.
I don’t go outside anyway.
And old wives’ tales say
to cut during the full moon
for it to grow faster.
Maybe that’s enough—
just this:
nothing worse happening.
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