She dyed her hair purple,
though not all of it.
She wanted to keep some of herself.
She didn’t want to erase everything.
She dyed her hair purple,
leaving some of that mousy color.
The purple was violets
like her favorite flower.
She was shy,
but now she would look bold.
She would stand out amongst the clover.
She dyed her hair purple
and bought all new clothes.
She donated much of those
childhood remnants
and took a trip to the thrift store.
She searched through the past,
through the castaways
and found her new image.
She chose how she wanted to look.
She dyed her hair purple
and tried new things.
She went on walks through the woods,
laid in the hammock at night
to watch the stars,
to catch lightning bugs
in the summer,
to draw in the sunlight,
to read in the grass,
write down the stories in her head,
and dare to be herself.
She dyed her hair purple
and kids at school thought she was weird.
But she didn’t care.
She dyed her hair purple
and her parents didn’t like it.
They thought she was going to do bad things.
But she didn’t.
She was a flower child,
a child of the night,
and true to herself.