I like your hair
“I like your hair,” I say,
but what I really mean is,
“I like how your hair reminds me of soft summer songs,
of strawberry milk
and clouds in my palms.
I think that when it is summer,
your hair curls at the ends in sweat
and sticks to your blushed cheeks and neck.
I imagine you pushing your bangs from your brow
with the back of your hand
because the sun is laughing now.
Everything is laughing.
Mother.
Father.
Sister.
Friend.
Teacher.
Not you.
The list goes on in sickening charm.
The sun is still laughing
when you write those names down your arm.
I think your hair is like that of a fairy
because your blistered hands and bruised knees
do not speak of the war your carry
deep within the chasm of your body.
Slamming bedroom door,
boy’s room, your clothes on his floor
( not enough )
Slipping grades,
curses across your chest in bold red letters
( not enough )
Cigarette poised between mouth and fingers
(thought and choice)
(dance and deed)
NOT ENOUGH.
You look into the mirror and see a hurricane,
you see a body as a puddle after the rain.
So you dye your hair
because you want attention
without screaming so loud for it.
You want attention
because you find part of yourself broken.”
I know this.
But I do not say this.
Instead, I set down your tray
and your cherry coke and say,
“I like your hair.”
