invisible boundary

He picks up one of my braids that my mom laid against the side of my face. 

I’m not comfortable with people touching my hair and I want to tell him this. 

When I turn 

His eyes dare me 

To contradict his action. 

I reason with myself, 

It’s just my hair

It’s just my hair 

It’s my hair 

It is my hair 

it is my hair that I grow and comb and worry over and run my fingers through and wash, 

he is touching my hair 

I’m not comfortable with people touching my hair and I want to tell him this.

he lets go as if to have read my mind 

he sets the braid back down on my shoulder, 

on his own term, 

smiles. 

I come home that evening and spend all of my time 

washing and conditioning and massaging and drying,

cleaning an invisible crime scene 

scrubbing away invisible fingerprints

off of the walls of my house and my windows and floors 

I don’t know why my body looks like a door with a key inside

inviting strangers,

I don’t know why 

I have posted signs 

outlining my face and my posture

do not enter 

which are disregarded; thrown aside 

I braid my hair 

down the back of my neck 

imaging that i am tying my own noose 

with exhausted fingers, 

an empty heart.