They call our hair foreign.
They laugh and mock.
We're told to constantly 'protect it' when all we do is hide it from the world.
They call it out like a disease.
But for fucks sake, it's just hair.
Our hair.
My hair.
The coils that grow from our heads and try to reach the sun.
Not strange. Not ugly. Not weird.
Just fucking hair.
Our hair.
My hair.
YOU ARE READING
The poems I carved from my wounds
PoetrySomeone once told me life doesn't come at you it comes from you. You're the caption of your soul, the master of your fate. If that were true I'd have a phatty right now.
