I can’t cut my skin. I can’t show scars across my body. I can’t display my suffering.

But my hair can.

Each cut, each strand. It’s way less painful than getting cut somewhere else, yet nothing can outshine that internal battle in me—the real thing that needs cutting.

Each cut, each idea. Don’t let them know I suffer. Cut shorter, cut deeper. Let the hair take what my skin can’t.

Each cut, each memory. Forget it all, forget the life you’ve lived. Forget how much you once cherished your hair. Forget all who have remembered and forgotten you.

Each cut, each reflection. Look in the mirror one last time. The tears in your eyes blur your vision, unable to see the mess you have created on your head.

Each cut, each blade. The grief has won tonight, for you cannot breathe. Your vision clears up to show your forbidden display of emotions and feelings all on top of your head. The sound of the razor blade drops to the bathroom floor, falling as you do when you finally hit rock bottom.

Each cut, each style. You dread the person you have become. You look at all the reckless and miscalculated cuts, and utter “What have I done?” With this dread comes a comes with a wave of guilt and regret.great guilt and regret. With this regret comes with one last glance.

Each mirror, each mind. Look at yourself again, I beg you. You are still suffering either way, just choosing a different route. Yet, no matter what or where you cut, it shows the same thing. It shows the same suffering.

Your hair just takes what your skin can’t.

The Frontman