this is really fucking long, I'm not that pretentious it just got like this, feel free not to read it or whatever..ps it's not even a poem really

I think about Rapunzel and the haphazard approach she took to allow company to get to her.
I don’t brush my hair very often, but I still think it would be easier to cut it off from my head if I needed a rope handy. And why didn’t she climb down?
Maybe it was different. Afterall, nobody’s asking to climb up to me, and nobody is relying on the roots of my hair, except maybe myself.
But in a mess of tangles, would it even be safe for someone to want to approach me?
And would there be any point or fairness to put so much of my effort into into pulling a friend up to myself when they will just find me here ridden with tangles and unable to make a ladder from silk?
Could I not just yell ‘In this tower, without a risky descent, you may just all lose me.’?
But would I ever be heard? And would it ever be worth it to take that risky descent and climb down?
And when Rapunzel’s hair was cut off, if she hadn’t been tossed out into the woods,do you think she’d ever have the courage to get out of that mess? Would she have climbed down herself or lingered around throwing chunks of hair out her window just so people would remember her existence?
I don’t think I could ever rely on safety that grew from the hair on my head, something that is so frailly rooted inside of me.
So if I am to be forever stuck in my tower, I’d hope that you’d wait, as I stick my hands through tufts of my own hair, and tug them into ropes.
Pull the strands bleached numb and invisible into a braid that’s meshed with the security and permanence of black locks, ones that have already absorbed the insecurity of false-light and hope.
And I hope you’d keep waiting as I found it in me to admit they aren’t just dark, but truthfully inconvenient, almost annoying, still lamenting over every fucking loss.
And I’d explain how it hurts when they’re pulled tightly together by trying to move forward and pull someone close.
How when the black strands are mingled with the emotionally bleached
I just get all strung up in knots, and I can’t just keep brushing them over and off.
Because although I want someone to reach me, I’d rather climb down to meet them, than have them think I’d put all my faith into something so aesthetic as hair to keep them close, or risk them getting tricked and tossed out into thorns and becoming blind like Prince Charming.
So wait my friends, wait until I have the courage to demand it all be cut off
Wait till I can show you that I can weave specks of brightness in an otherwise bleak evening, into something that I can trust.
Because what I need is a twilight advocacy for thoughts that are honest.
What I need is something more than the chains that connect us by a false sense of security, the ones that were only sustained by the expected and routine.
What I need is something that doesn’t make me believe that without trying, I can always trust people would want to climb up.
So you can cut this braid off , make me bald, and while you’re at it, hand me the rope that’s left from it.
I’ll use it to dangerously rock-climb out of this place.

Now, I’m not saying I’m some fucking Rapunzel, but I am beginning to look out at the world with her eyes.And maybe it won’t be long until I’m screaming till my throat bleeds, “In this tower you’re going to lose me" And the witch will be the one who finds me with the scissors, and she’ll be the one pleading to have the permission to take them from my hands.
She'll grab them from me knowing that I’m more at a loss, and less likely to be saved, if I’m freed from the weight of my hair with the option of jumping down myself.
She'll take them from me.
Knowing that I'm worse off having to rely on someone to want to climb up.
Knowing I'll be forever waiting in my room to feel a tug.