"damnations" poems - Hello Poetry

They were the knotted extensions of her soul. They showed how she twisted the truth right out the lies she had been told. Since birth people tried to typecast her role. Marry a man Have some babies Grow old Her family would say someone mucked up the recipe; sugar, spice and everything nice. She was dissimilar to the 3. Her sugar was solitude. Her spice? Tattoos. Everything nice in her had been stripped and ******* So the only thing left of that were the bits of metal in her lips, nose and ears. "Brush your hair 100 times a day, dear", Her mother had said for years. And she did until the day she told her parents she was a different kind of queer. Then,the tears. Somewhere between her mother's damnations, her father's belligerence and her usual rebuttal of indifference, she began to take interest in her hair. Those long, straight strands were nothing like her. The red reflected her parents rejection. In that moment. There was clarity in the contorted version of love she had to incur. She decided the only expectations to accept were hers. And just like that the barrier between her and the world cracked. She decided to dread her hair and dye it black. As the years went by, her parents learned to accept their daughter. And in return each year she would send them a photo showing how her hair had gotten longer. She also added trinkets to the locks and let the strawberry color grow back. Yet she kept the tips black to remind herself no matter what the world wants her to be the most important thing in life was her self-esteem.

0

Jan 9, 2014

Jan 9, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC

timothy-brown

Dreadlocks

They were the knotted extensions of her soul. They showed how she twisted the truth right out the lies she had been told. Since birth people tried to typecast her role. Marry a man Have some babies Grow old Her family would say someone mucked up the recipe; sugar, spice and everything nice. She was dissimilar to the 3. Her sugar was solitude. Her spice? Tattoos. Everything nice in her had been stripped and ******* So the only thing left of that were the bits of metal in her lips, nose and ears. "Brush your hair 100 times a day, dear", Her mother had said for years. And she did until the day she told her parents she was a different kind of queer. Then,the tears. Somewhere between her mother's damnations, her father's belligerence and her usual rebuttal of indifference, she began to take interest in her hair. Those long, straight strands were nothing like her. The red reflected her parents rejection. In that moment. There was clarity in the contorted version of love she had to incur. She decided the only expectations to accept were hers. And just like that the barrier between her and the world cracked. She decided to dread her hair and dye it black. As the years went by, her parents learned to accept their daughter. And in return each year she would send them a photo showing how her hair had gotten longer. She also added trinkets to the locks and let the strawberry color grow back. Yet she kept the tips black to remind herself no matter what the world wants her to be the most important thing in life was her self-esteem.