I've known you for five years.
We were best friends for four.
You were older by fifteen years.
But even at thirteen I loved you more
than any man I've ever met.
And I still do.
And I know that with each still birth your heart broke off another piece.
And I am sorry.

But that doesn't mean that I don't think about you every day.
And wish that eventually you will come out and say
I love you.

Because I will never stop loving you too.
Even if you never told me your last name.

I have the unfortunate belief that
my self-worth lies in the quality of my hair.
It may sound ridiculous, but it's true.

Go ahead, touch my hair.
I feed off of your fascination
-though I remain engaged only as long as you do-
my tolerance for my hair is equivalent to its length.

I once had someone tell me
"I like your hair better straight"
And that was when fifth grade ruined me.

I thought by changing they would accept me.
And Daniel would like me like he liked Taylor
and all of my likes would be returned and
Eddie would choose me because we were best friends
and I had the fortune of being beautiful
but I wasn't allowed to be beautiful to him because
I have this hair.

People wonder why I spend hours with an iron.
But when you're so different that
boys won't like you because your hair is curly
and you teeth are crooked you have no choice but to
change the things that are in your power.

I could never make myself fully white
But I sure as hell can straighten my hair
and let Mamaw buy me braces.
They can call you giraffe neck still,
but at least your hair is straight like everyone else.

Yes, you like to touch it and it's "neat" and it's "soft"
But why on earth should that matter to me?
People respect my hair because it is mine.
But he will not love it unless it is like hers-
wind-caught silk that hangs to her waist.

I weep for my hair.
I weep for my hair.

You do not understand how different it is.
You do not understand how hard it is
to stick out like a sore thumb because your
genetics were oppressed for 500 years.

I am ugly
Because of my hair.
No number of people telling me of its beauty will matter
because I cannot see it.

He cannot see it either.

I don't know what I'm doing.

I think that I'm clinging to the hope
that when this all ends

I won't be alone anymore.

I had a dream
that you tried to **** me with a hammer.



I guess this means you don't love me.

When I read your poems
I want nothing more than to be close to you.
Intimately, not Romantically.
I want to sit next to you
and take your hands
I want to look at the scars and wonder.
Wonder why you do those things to yourself
why it's so hard to talk to you
Wonder why you chose to be my friend.

I want to take your hands in mine
and kiss your palms
and look into your eyes with a reassuring smile
that tells you everything's going to be okay.
But I can't.

I can't because you terrify me.
You terrify us all.
You're handsome and unknown.
You terrify us because we know nothing about you
accept for the scars.
I want to kiss and hold those scars.

I want to not be afraid anymore.