Curls frame my face the same way they framed yours, and now it is hard to look in a mirror.
Curls that you loved and
Curls that you made, you said I was a lucky girl to look like you. That truth
Curls around my throat and makes it hard to breathe. The way your arms would
Curl around me is no longer comforting. I mourn and I grieve, but never can I leave the
Curls that remain with me. My fingers
Curl around the bit of you that I have left. I hate admitting when I’ve wept.
Curling my pride, making it small, I hate more to admit when I haven’t wept at all.