To Those With Trich

In this poem lies a secret
Right from the root, strand by strand
Her hands fidget as her fingers fight the better battle
“Stop pulling,” she bickers
All the way to the end
To the last remaining strand
As she doesn’t sleep,
But at the times her body can no longer fight the drift,
Bearded ladies haunt her dreams
Because she wonders consistently
How they can handle so much hair
Overgrowing from their profiles
When she constantly wants to pull all hers out
She’s one snowflake away out there
From reaching the frosting temperatures
Of an ever-lasting frozen and bitter heart
She reads Love stories
With the sour face of a cynic
The secret she hides in not normal,
But the hair will grow back
She may never by no bearded lady, but
The hair will grow back within Time’s spiraling,
And this is all she can hope for
At the moment

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