the first pulls out easy.
a blonde hair that had snuck
its way into my black, 
the opposing side’s rook, 
so opposite my ancestry of
dark haired, dark skinned 
obsidian. the second,
like the first, takes little 
effort to pry free of its
small plot on my chin.
soon, I am ripping away
chunks, three and then
eight at a time, of gnarled
weeds, taking the skin
with them.
                 It smarts. 
Each falls to the sink
and joins the other twisted,
coarse, dead stalks as
my chin begins to redden.
then, even a small dot of
blood starts the path past
my bottom lip, until a slow 
drip has grown. But I 
am too far along now for
fixing, and make the last
desperate yanks that will
free me of this face. 
And it stings, and the
smell is unbearable
as I light the small pile. 

but they look so pretty
burning up.