_I colored my hair for you._
platinum blond, like the ones
you always looked at the magazines
that you stole from the department store;
pretending to stroll casually,
walking slowly, avoiding stares
while we held the laughter
trying to burst within
our cheeks.
_I colored my hair for you._
because of the inadequacy I feel
whenever I hold your hand
as we walk across the
judgement of bystanders, gazing
whispering, but you and I knew
that they don't matter as
long as I am holding you,
and you are holding me
I felt different yet
with you I am the same.
_I colored my hair for you._
to express the liberty of your choice
to be with someone like me,
with black of hair, beneath your chin;
and being with you elevates
my being, and the contrast
of differences among differences.
_I did it for you,_
or so I thought.
you asked me why,
and I told you
I shed the darkness of my old persona
and the absence of pigments
on the crown of my head
is a blank slate; could be anything
for white is the color of a fresh start
or of deceit,
or of emptiness.
and I am but a mixture of those,
for I am weak but perceived as strong
for I am friendly but alone
for I am a freshly painted wall, with scars
of a graffiti screaming for a revolution
_blond, I am._
a simple choice
with a taste
for a fucking
freedom
of self - expression.
_blond, I am._
a color I chose
to be.
_I colored my hair for you._
And I remember, inside my head
_I made you._