your uncle comes over on a Wednesday night
and tells you a story about
how your youngest cousin broke up with his girlfriend
for cutting her hair too short
she tells him she loves him very much and your cousin tells her “don’t love me I don’t want you to”
- your uncle says this and you can tell he’s boasting although he’s trying not to
so you, a feminist, a brown feminist, a woman who just learned to file her nails for fight, don’t know what to do with this story. you think of the girl, sick with love for a boy raised thinking his machismo opens all doors. you think of your uncle’s ex wife, your aunt, your godmother - how often they called her controlling, crazy, mean.
you wonder
how many times
she cut her hair or dyed it or wore something new
and your uncle looked away in disgust
there’s a story your family tells about your aunt and uncle. it’s the one about the time he was leaving the apartment and your aunt begged him not to leave. he opened the door and she stood on the window sill. he came back in quickly enough to catch her by her shirt or hair (depending the version) as she jumped out into the sky.
you wonder what happened in the moments before
your cousin, was a newborn
- was it postpartum depression?
did her body not feel like hers?
was he walking out when she needed him to stay?
was she called crazy so often she believed it?
your cousin, that you still call baby,
who shamed a woman for owning her body
asked you, the last time he was over,
“what you were trying to do with all things you post on Instagram? What’s your point? “
you don’t remember your answer
but you wish you had pointed at
the girl with her short hair
the one that loves him despite the hurt
and told him:
“I’m trying to show her she doesn’t need you”