You tell me my hair is horrid—wretched, too different from everyone else.
You call me names and mock me endlessly for something I was born with—
Something I never even had a choice over.
It was a crime sentenced to me before I was given the chance to choose between peace and uncertainty within myself.

But when I try to change it,
You turn around and lie through your lips and teeth—
Telling me it’s gorgeous, that I shouldn’t change it,
That it’s unique and different, that it unequivocally embodies who I am.

Who am I supposed to believe,
When all you do is give me mixed signals?