plans

I’m too old and not old enough to tie pieces of my hair in two ribbon bows, one on each side of my head like a child preparing for a performance, like a forest witch about to reveal the secrets in your teacup. I collect them anyway, these velvet and satin ornaments, a nest of maybe-tomorrow trophies, promises to self-infantilize, self-aggrandize, invite confusion, play, and then slip off and tuck away like that drawer of headbands, an archive of discarded crescent moons, sparkling, pending.