forgive me, for i have brushed my hair!

Knots upon knots, all in my hair. 

Too tired, too drained to pick them apart. 

Nothing in my being has compelled me to look in the mirror.

I haven’t seen my hairbrush, and I've become a mess. 

My hair still only reaches my shoulders.

It's been the same since the ninth grade.

I’ve always been told not to run with scissors.

My coffee turns cold before I get a chance to sip it.

I’m still worried about my mother getting older, and the day my dad will stop getting the door.