It is okay to be getting your hair trimmed for the first time in eighteen months.
It is fine to let yourself inflate a sad story and then another,
like pink gum bubbles
In the direction of anyone who will listen.
You can now chew over the last year and a half of your life
from a distance, when you’re at the hairdressers,
after she notices the short patches by your sideburns with an inquisitive look.
You can hold back the tears with relative ease,
as if telling of someone else’s illness,
rolling the grief around in your mouth like a gobstopper
whist her acrylic nails gently graze the backs of your ears.
You can use an entire palm full of shampoo in the shower,
because caring for yourself is not an indulgence, or a waste.
And you deserve to have a second breakfast sometimes.
Or to buy yourself lotions and perfumes whenever you like,
even if it’s still an attempt to drown out the smell
of his aftershave and metal keys, and that Sakura bathbomb
he bought you on your first