Someone once told me I’m “too kind for this world”
Many would agree with this statement, for that’s the only side of me they’ve ever seen

One girl knows the truth, however
She knows I’m not kind at all
She knows that being around me is a risk

My anger could explode
Any second now
Like an alarm clock rapidly ticking
When will it ring?
She never knows

But when the clock finally chimes
She knows who will bear the force of it
She knows who will withstand my fury
It’s always her

She’s steady as I berate her
But I see the hurt on her face
Clear as day to me
Carefully masked with a snarky expression
She doesn’t want me to know it stings
But I do
And yet I continue

My poor little sister

People tell me they love my curls
They're messy, frizzy, and spirited
Never tame or smooth
They remind me of myself in that way

It's funny though
How people love my curls
Until we have a dance
Or a concert

And then
The straightening requests begin

They always do

Almost as if
My hair isn't fit for a fancy event

No matter how much gel I use
My curls don't cooperate
The same way others' do

Does that mean they shouldn't be seen?
Should my curls be crushed with heat?

The older I get
The more it's starting to seem that way