My father once told me,
To grow out my hair,
Then I'd be pretty like my mother,
And he would actually care.
He would blackmail me,
Put me down for my looks,
Said I had no friends,
But good that I read books.
He said these hurtful things,
Such a while ago,
But I remember them today,
The words never really go.
They stick with me,
Like I stuck with my long hair,
But I cut it, and tomorrow,
I hope he won't care.
It's true, I'm scared,
For what my father might say,
But at least, I know,
I'm safe for another day.