• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 11
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He used to stroke my hair
And say I was a lioness,
In a hatless summer
When all eyes would turn towards us.

Then he saw me wake up,
Tangled, greasy and stale with sweat,
One October morning,
Before the shampoo and hairbrush.

Now he has a new pet
And parades it before his friends.
It is tame and trusting.
Where could he have put the scissors?