Sasha

Photo @kang_iqbale

Sasha sees the girls with their pretty hair, straight and light, and she wants to pull it. She wants to pull it because she sees the way that they look at her, and she wants to take it away from them. She wants to pull it from them and have it to herself. She wants to pile it up in her hands and bring it up to her face, to inhale, to breathe them in. Sasha sees all the girls with their pretty hair, and she waits until the teacher is not looking, and then she pulls it. She gets her hand slapped. She gets her hand slapped so many times that when she closes her eyes, that’s all she can feel. The teacher thinks that that’ll teach her. That’ll make her stop. But Sasha just pours every bit of herself into making her hand quicker. Sasha can pull hair so fast now that the teacher doesn’t have time to slap her hand. So the teacher turns Sasha around and makes her face the wall, and then she slaps her behind with a wooden ruler instead. The teacher thinks that being slapped with a ruler will teach her. But Sasha’s arms swarm around the pretty girls like tentacles. She hovers around them like a hummingbird. Waiting. Every year is kindergarten. Every year the girls grow up and go away, but Sasha stays the same. Every year, her hand gets a little quicker. Every year, Sasha sees the girls with the pretty hair, and she wants to pull it. Sasha sees the girls with their pretty hair, and she wishes she could pull it right off their scalps for the way they look at her.