Shearing

It falls softly on the sink.

Strands and Clumps

gather at the edge of the basin.

Vibrations make my hand unsteady,

shaking in anxiety,

fearing my own image.

Mirror shows the

shearing in progress.

Skin exposed, moist,

soft after hiding all these years.

Cascading downward,

making no sound

it grows bigger.

My trembling hand

reaches,

touches skin.

It's not so bad.

Paper guides the years into a pile,

dumps them into the wastebasket.