Self Portrait Poem

 Self Portrait

Sometimes I find an old strand of hair tangled

in the fibers of my clothes. The strand is

green. Red. Purple. 

Teal. Auburn. Blonde. 

I wriggle the strand out,

prying a piece of who I once was

from my time-capsule sleeves. 

I recall what it was like to be Me

at that time, with fresh, faded, 

and reanimated hair. And as

I sweep, I remember that

the dust must be made of at least

50% dead skin cells. They shrivel

and flake off, and the remnants

of Me are lost to the vacuum.