Gardens

My hair strands rise from the grave of my scalp.

They are all thin roses.

Beautiful, Blooming creations but be warned!

My twists have a temper.

Thorns grow in pairs in every direction.

Layers form so nothing can touch.

They are scared by the clippers of a barber.

Who has the audacity to cut their roots.

But no more!

You can’t clip my birthright.

I am no slave to this society.

But words...they are scissors.

Cutting everything in their path. Sometimes I can hear my curls crying out for my acceptance. For my mercy.

But how am I supposed to give them something that was never given to me?

An empty heart cannot give love.

They scream the word uncivilized in my face.

Whispers plot behind my back.

Finding ways to make me similar to them.

I grab the detangler spray, constantly spraying away insecurities.

Picking out pain until entanglement disappears.

I have nowhere else to hide.

Everything sugar, everything spice, and everything nice.

Might as well be a powerpuff boy, I am a superhero.

Samson in an afro, no, Samson in the struggle, no, Samson in a melanin catastrophe.

And at this point, if my twist is a storm then let it.

I'll be the rainbow after the storm ceases.

Let my fro flow free.

Levitate in the Garden of Eden where it belongs.