“I think this is yours”

mine being the fallen twisted unkempt memory of my synthetic follicles

too much is mine that I had to borrow.

but this isn’t mine at all, everything about it has been
burned
fought
ignored under injured wrists
sent to stranger’s hands
to be reminded yet again

“I think this is yours.”

underneath a sorrowed black and white image of life
 listen to hands braid pathways to my ancestors

thick
big
oiled with the power to charm the arms, legs, and ears
scalp, toes, and knees.

yes, it is mine

all of it.