Razor roulette
"You promised me that everything was gonna be okay, remember?" RFAD
I am afraid of you,
but you hand me the razor
remove the clipper guard
so I can get closer
to the skin.
You tell me to shave
every last inch.
Do you know how many men
would kill
for your hairline?
Fly to Turkey for it?
Shaving your head,
I hold a blade to your skull—
not your heart.
I’ll tell you exactly
where I’m cutting.
But it’s not an art—
just removing everything
The only mistake I can make
is hurting you.
I find a rhythm with the buzzer,
moving up
down
back
and forth.
I skin like a potato.
Grate
like parmesan.
Dark hair circles the drain,
sprinkles the t-shirt
I’m wearing—
yours.
Feels like sculpting now,
taking away
the excess.
You turn
I see your neck tattoo
“your head has a nice shape,”
I say.
“it was made
for this.”
You point out the dent,
I touch it.
We laugh
and make up stories.
“Who dropped you?”
Do you know I’m falling now?
like a baby.
We are two
against the inevitability
of growth.
Still, I don’t trust you
to slow down
Still, I don’t trust
my own hand—
it’s trembling.
My other palm
touches your back
for stability—
that’s all I swear.
So muscly,
but hot as a stove.
Too close, too much.
Just a rookie barber.
This is new,
and I’m terrified.
I stand behind you,
and inspect my work.
We both stare in the mirror
Your green eyes
on yourself.
mine on you.
I hold the blade,
but you have one too.