ROOTS
November 2 — Roots
It started at the roots. An ungluing of myself. The strands came at first in thin tendrils, and then in thick cords, intestinal in their weight. The hairs were black and shiny in the palm of my hand, tethered in my comb, heaped and drenched at the bottom of the tub.
It didn’t hurt, if anything it felt like a relief. I could discern each moment there would be a release. A tightening of the head, tension building until a tingling sensation loosened everything. I could almost hear a crack, inaudible but tangible, as the hairs fell out.
Then the scalp, in flakes and then in blood. White and red, the roots unfurling themselves. I didn’t think it was possible, this kind of shedding of the skin, the scalp, my human form. But the proteins, water, and fats sloughed off in a wave.
I was cold. I didn’t have skin, but I felt it still, a chill passing over me. I was liquid and solid and many legged. But most importantly, I was boundless.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
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