Inside of me, there is hair, wound up and balled And knotted tight. It is the thing that fills me, makes my stomach soft. It tickles against the underside of my skin when I laugh or cry. Once I pulled out a hair from my eye. I thought it was an eyelash, but it kept coming and coming. I cut it off and tucked it back beneath my lid. I barely feel it anymore. I tell you this story And you seem to listen But you see a hair on my belly, poking through my skin. It is still wet from my insides Dark and thick as thread. You pinch it between your fingers and pull. I unravel quickly. I deflate. The hair pulls tight around my vocal chords So I cannot even tell you to stop. You don’t realize what you are doing. It is just so fun to discover!
Greta Hayer received her MFA at the University of New Orleans and has work appearing or forthcoming in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Booth, Maudlin House, Cossmass Infinites, and Flint Hills Review. She received a bachelor’s degree in history from the College of Wooster, where she studied fairy tales and medieval medicine. Her column, “In Search of the Dream World,” can be found at Luna Station Quarterly. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and their two alien cats.