On Fleek

Location

 

You don't know just how

often I mistake my Hair

for something living.



Hairs can be a strange

silhouette, if I turn too

quick. Then, ants, coiled.



My Hair plays so much

Games. Like, stop playing. Ain’t no

body got the time.



A child with a head

full of Black People Hair is

Two children, I swear.



Remove them from me

and watch all things, black, revert

back, as they do. See?



Be weary of the

Delilah eyeing those drapes

Covering your mind.


This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741