"perm" poems
I’m the perm of a
Poet
I can choke
I can breathe
I can drink a cup of coffee
And you
Are a murmuration
A flock of afternoon
midnight
I will let your
Black mass love me
However
However
However
It can
I’m reaching for you
Little bird
Take me with your arrow
The streets of this
Pure piano
And I introduce the yowling
Trumpet
The dead skin on
my back
Flecks with the quiver
Of flying with you
By choice
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
Oh Jamaican girl,where is your patois?
where is your long dreads of natural hair?
your culture?
Jamaican girl,sing your country's national anthem
How do you not like reggae?
what kind of Jamaican are you?
You see the ackee and codfish I stuffed down my throat on a Saturday morning would never be enough for them.
My extinctive use of the English language made them sick at their guts
The fact that my waistline won't move in such a manner to alarm others.
Born in the Yard
Grew up in the suburbs
Never boastful;always grateful
So Jamaican girl you try to act white on purpose?
Wear 'American clothes'
And perm your hair?
My nationality will coexist throughout my veins
Will never hit sunlight unless my tongue decides to move in that direction.
Will never be ashamed of my heritage as I am proud of it,yet also modified to not be defined by it.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 2:36 AM UTC
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, tell me what suits,
Soft natural highlights, or strong punk roots?
Auburn red or beach blonde hair,
Brunette with greens, or short blunt rare?
Mermaid midnight old balayage blues,
Grey ombré curled with lilac hues?
Lemon yellow paint or neon spice,
Purple color that matches my hazel eyes!
Tousled, textured, twirled and twined,
We could take it to the front, or let it all behind.
Black hair with beautiful mahogany dye,
Fringes looking pretty every day passing by.
Straight hair with an asymmetrical bob,
Lips painted red, formal and hot.
Tie buns and bows with colorful clips,
Grow pink hair long, till they reach my hips.
Fish tail braid like a Boho chic,
All pastel shades spread, across the width.
Blonde and bright, they are in my sight,
Soon to be a celebrity, wearing them uptight.
Burgundy wine perm, crazy long,
Every hair color has a song.
There are chances that they may look all wrong,
But hey! I'm not scared to just play along!
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands
with chipped
tired
pale-pink nailpolish
flutter in the air,
describing.
three froofy perms
one browny-gray
one white
one salt and pepper
bob
jutting forward,
one
wobbles a little.
Grandma wears
a green-foam party hat
with a thin, white elastic band
that runs under her wrinkled chin
it sits atop her fuzzy perm
comically...
she smiles
at me.
"Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?"
she chucks her great-granddaughter
under the chin,
grins
"oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones."
she hands them to her white-haired sister
aunt cidi told me
this year she is
ninety-one
oh, and the gloves were really
blue.
aunt cidi
misses uncle harland
he was buried three or four years ago
in his uniform
i remember sitting next to him
at awkward family reunions
eating hotdogs
i never saw so much mustard
in my life
he could never hear me
when i tried to talk to him
but he smiled
anyway.
the talk turns serious
suddenly
over our black coffee
crossed legs
sweaters
and chocolate cake
grandma turns grim
in her lime-green party hat
"did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?"
aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit
she squints
wrinkles her nose
"i TRIED to!"
she scowls.
schemes of ******
plotted by three chunky-earringed
sweet
old ladies
who are a little late
for the 1940's
but never too late
for a handsome
soldier
"we're older..."
says aunt jeanie
"but not THAT old!"
they all
giggle.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Tuna sandwiches on white bread
Carried in a paper bag
Josh Groban on the CD player
Season Three of 2 broke Girls
Matching shoes and purses
Vacation in the Pocanos
Subscription to People Magazine
Pennies in a piggy bank
Silver-beige 4-door Accord
A little college but no degree
Always ten pounds overweight
Celebration meal at Sizzler
Artificial Christmas tree pre-lit
A mole that wants removing
Off white walls, pale green carpet
Outfits from mail order catalogs
Paydays with no yearly bonus
Jeopardy and Wheel of fortune
Polyester perm press everything
Bic Stik ball point pen
Swanson's TV dinner
Flip phone with no camera
*** two times a week and Sunday
Writing verse nobody reads
ljm
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
Your rhymes were a bin bag thrown
in the trash, couldn't even write a
sentence, dyslexia of meaning
and ****** up sentences that
weren't even spelt write.
Couldn't even spin a line,
as it was meant to be straight
but your words were more wavy than
a bad perm.
There isn't room for a failed wanna be,
alone in your room ************
hard,
But your more empty than the raisin
***** your trying to spit out of...
Non consequential wording that doesn't flow
down stream,
more like your floating bloated
breath releasing putrid gas
that stinks more than what they were belching out.
I never insult the cadavers of dead lines,
but your words were buried even before
you opened that hurse of dead beats.
a handful of rhymes that were more powerful than
your buried career,
sorry you were a foot in the grave even before you
opened your mouth.
Song I wrote after I used your girl..
I wasn't the one she wanted it was you,
but I gave her what she wanted
and that never included you..
Every thing you wanted I stole,
and gave her fake wishes that were
tarnished but she never looked beyond
the moment seeing the stitching
of us was more fake than the smiles I gave her.
I knew she wanted to be with you,
but I was the salesman of woman..
While you were the boy next door, I was the salesmen
showing her fake dreams..
Don't worry you can have her after I've used her enough,
I'll even trade her in for a good price..
Ye, she'll be broken..
But everything is always defective
after I've rode it enough...
Her crown maybe cracked,
but she'll be yours even though she'll be thinking
of me even though your in her, I'm the length
she'll remember but she'll be your crack queen.
Now this is enough of wording.
and I'm moving on to the next one.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
Parading through Jerus'lem's holy way
Two criminals and one redeemer king
Struggled through the horde, indignant fray
To hill of Skulls, their judgment for to bring.
The sand burned coarse as fire on bloodied skin,
As holy muscles strained to lift the tree,
But ev'n more weight added from our sin,
Upon the shoulders of the precious He. But as they reached pained blessed Calvary's peak,
And air eluded His life-giving lungs,
He lost his life with one great final shriek,
And perm'nent placed his name on watcher's tongues.
He drank the cup of wrath, and tore the veil,
So forever we'd delight in Good Friday's tale.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
can you not see that the sorrow weighs me down as if i'm chained and thrown into that lake you dared me to jump in that one time. and maybe that's symbolic because i've always said drowning is the way i want to go. but i feel like i've already died a thousand deaths seeing you look into the eyes of another with the adoration that once was mine. it was foolish of me to think that someone of such magnitude would be with someone as normal as me. i got a perm and my nails were always chewed to nothingness. everything about me was average but you made me feel like i was important. you made me feel magnificent. and maybe it was just that my world was brighter with you in it because now i know there's nothing special about me. the only thing i ever had going for me was that i was with you.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
I've got a little black book with my poems in
I've got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in
When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on
Got those swollen hand blues.
Got thirteen channels of **** on the T.V. to choose from
I've got electric light
And I've got second sight
I've got amazing powers of observation
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There'll be nobody home
I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm
And I've got the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favourite satin shirt
I've got nicotine stains on my fingers
I've got a silver spoon on a chain
I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains
I've got wild staring eyes
I've got a strong urge to fly
But I've got nowhere to fly to
Ooooh Babe when I pick up the phone
There's still nobody home
I've got a pair of Gohills boots
And I've got fading roots.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC
As wavy as the deep blue waves.
As wavy as hair that just got a perm.
As wavy as busy old Lombard Street.
As wavy as the warped board in the garage.
As wavy as the petals on a tulip.
As wavy as the cream in your cocoa.
Are the clouds painting the sky.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
this title has begrudgingly waited for some loving kindness, fulfillment-needy, since October of Two Thousand and Seventeen
which is not quite as long as the decades I have been waiting to
accumulate the words to provide us both, an inspired solution
my days are numbered
in decades, decals, varying lengths of hair,
belts with notches that ain’t reachable,
suits various, both too big and too small to fit,
the who who used to own them,
begrudgingly, writes this
city born and bred, with the pale skin needed to prove my urbanity, each day came unto me begrudgingly,
even, especially, the good ones
when I was ten and rode my bike from freedom to mystery,
and back again in a city that was ok, if you stayed out of its way
and knew the city’s vocabulary and its erogenous zones
when nothing come easy, when even the easy, when it comes, comes begrudgingly
when you think of love, and the next immediate thought is:
how great the cost - recalling too well,
the pain of childbirth and child rearing
and the staining, paining fluid is in perm-attendence,
that doesn’t ever fully departs and
is not never entirely stain-stick-removable,
and the children come ‘n go according to their schedule,
someone else’s vast eternal plan
life in the same apartment
where my parents died,
listening to the stories of joined lives,
listen to the sisters telling them
over and over to a stream of visitors
earned from and of a 98 year life,
given up willing but, begrudgingly as well.
the story-telling skill because of them,
my mist-matched parents who did ok
and their very best,
gifted us hyperbole innate genetic
and all of us now registered
tall tale tellers;
some write for a living,
some live to write,
some write to make themselves clearer,
after honestly confronting their subway reflection
words acquired bot ‘n sold,
they too are stains unerasable,
very always handy,
the one thing we shared, word skill,
was never at loss, words never held a grudge
no matter how long they waited to serve
this fact, begrudgingly confess;
all my-word skill was freely inherited...
and I hope it satisfied the title
and you, those that waited patiently but,
begrudgingly
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
It’s one dollar per load Wednesday and
Time move’s slow at the corner of East Clinton Street
Where under dim flickered fluorescent lamp posts
Tricks tossed in bottles than splashed back in flasks
Flung to back pockets of loiterers at the Laundromat,
Seems to be a prized accessory of the regular.
The regular, leans on washers with leather skin wrinkled wrung hung far from healed bones, like hangers hanging loose clothes. With soapy brain, bleached hair matted like a rats
She remembers rents way past due, Joey about to come through, and hunger is bad.
Fast thoughts surpass the regular
She smiles behind me through glass reflecting washers.
Mouth full of rotting cavities gleam in the mirror, the sass shuffles outside and lights a red for a change of scenery
Waiting hesitantly during weekly ritual
Which entails more steps than her walk up the avenue
Separating the darks from the whites, like Grandma used to
Detergent, unbranded is used sparingly
She folds each article of clothing carefully, basking in each minute
Diligent about cold wash versus perm press best suggests that for her today life is made easy
For the regular, laundry day is a great escape
Because fabric builds fast in those plastic baskets basked with sweat saturated dresses for a baby
And Joey’s boxers
Today the regular can transact funds to feel fresh, dryer warm complacency in jean skirts plagued with rhinestones
Costumes crafted to endure weekend sin
At the corner of East Clinton Street, those who do not feel like feeling when dire deeds did ***** cheap lose meaning; come here to worship or cleansed
Meaning, I can’t seem to haul this hamper of laundry laundered with various v-neck tees tainted by poisonous stains, regretfully sunk to the bottom of cotton follicles
It’s too heavy to toil with
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
i did always say that perms don’t make good poetry; especially yours because honestly most of the time it was vaguely flat and misshapen. then again that was one of the first things you said to me; ‘in defence of the perm’.
that and a self-inflicted proclamation regarding your narcissistic disposition, so really all the signs were there; it could be compared rather dramatically to a romanticised act of self-harm.
as in, you didn’t really want to be loved or fixed but that didn’t stop me from trying; as in, part of me thought that by stitching up your wounds and healing your scars i could also fix myself.
self-sabotage of the highest degree.
getting tangled up in someone else’s string is a dangerous affair, rarely do you ask permission; you throw yourself into their mess in the tangibly desperate hope that two negatives might make a positive.
that, in between all of the crying and pills and messy ******* filled nights; between the hazy afternoons wrapped up in borrowed sheets and sweat. that somewhere deep within it all there would be a flash of mutual comfort and understanding.
the kind of “let’s be a mess together and try and fix it all” thing that only actually exists in coming of age movies surrounded by cigarette smoke and electric house parties.
it’s a terrifying and debilitating thing to fall in love with the idea of what could have been; their potential. people don’t fall for the extremes and absolutes; they fall in love with the details,
we lose ourselves and find each other in the details.
you will fall for the way he always licks his bottom lip slightly before he kisses you or the way he is so painfully cynical and innocently hopeful all at once.
it’ll be the small circles he’ll trace along the back of your hand with his thumb and the way that you’ll know you’re getting in too deep but will feel powerless in the face of it all.
so, you lie back like the pavement is sand and he is the waves that crash mercilessly down on you again and again and again.
the tide will change but the bruising will never stop,
his touch,
his words will never be soft enough, at least not for you.
the next girl that tries; i wish you luck and i promise it’ll be worth it because maybe
perms do make alright poetry after all.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
I couldn't make up
my mind today,
so
instead of asking for a perm,
I ordered an imaginary tat
that wraps around
my arm
extolling
your
character
and
virtue.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 12:46 PM UTC
Two people walk into a bar:
A woman, early twenties, permed-up, puffed-out hair
Horn-rimmed glasses thicker than coke bottle bottoms
Fresh out the ivory tower eager to learn eager to become who she needs to be
Parlez-vous français? She does,
Her tongue speeding over conjugated verbs
Flying effortlessly through another language, she is ready
To move to Paris, la ville de l’amour,
The City of Lights, the City of Untold Possibilities
She is ready, she thinks,
To fall in love.
A man, earlier twenties, close-cropped, clean-shaven hair
Sea-green eyes and 20/20 vision-placid ocean
Fresh out Basic Training eager to act eager to become who he needs to be
Do you read me, Sir? He does,
His spine rigid from standing straight and tall,
Hand crooked at his forehead in an involuntary salute, he is ready
To build fighter jets with his oil-stained hands
To build a life for himself with his carpenter’s fingers
To build a house on the stability he thrives in
He is ready, he thinks,
To let someone in.
Two people walk into a bar:
A man, an Army graduate, an old soul
A woman, a College graduate, a kind soul
Guitar riffs floating from the jukebox drift through the air,
Playing the background music for newfoundlove story.
Two people walk into a bar:
Friends introduce them to each other,
She thinks, Those green eyes sparkle with the sun freckling his cheeks
Reddening his hair.
She thinks, Maybe he’s the one.
He thinks, That perm really works for her frames her face what a pretty smile.
He thinks, Maybe she’s the one.
Two people walk into a bar:
Sit down, have a drink,
Share some laughs, funny stories,
Break the ice with awkward questions,
Eat some food, too shy to share it
Get some drinks, guzzle liquid courage,
Dance to the jukebox buzz
Look a little silly but pretend they don’t care.
They don’t care.
Two people walk into a bar:
Maybe they leave hand-in-hand,
Maybe they hug goodbye at the door.
Maybe they think about each other and call right away.
Maybe they set up more dates, more bar trips, more laughs.
Maybe they already know that they are in love.
Two people walk into a bar:
Their history writes its own punchline.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
Being a girl is hard
But being a black girl...
Let me tell you about being a black girl
Leave Out
Twist
Frontal
Perm
Pick your poison
"Unprofessional"
Or falling for " European Beauty Standards"
" Why are you so quiet?"
Do you expect me to be aggressive
And snap my fingers in an A-Z formation
Light Skin is the best skin
Or so they say
I'm jealous of my brother, for his caramel skin
Oh what I'd do for that caramel skin
You think that's the worst of it but have you see ****
Cute girl makes love to -insert famous **** star here
Ebony ***** gets banged till she squirts
Which would you rather watch?
If you ever turned on a TV you'd see reality shows with the perfect blue eyed blond hair cast and the one black kid who doesn't get enough attention
Ever since Rachel was the Bachelorette I too prayed one day I'll find the man of my dreams
Have you ever had a crush on someone and ever think if they even like girls your skin color?
Being a girl is hard
But being a black girl
Oh let me tell you about being a black girl
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
He was a tapeworm
his sister had a bad perm
sitting on her head,
edge of the bed
in a knife sliced
corridor of light. These thoughts,
that leaned like weak trees
in a cutting breeze.
These thoughts
that we're never straight more
a child's hurricane scribble.
A mental ball of twine collecting clutter
and when the cobra struck
I thought of you
naked,
ready to **** the venom
or offer the antidote.
The misery and turbulence,
the fear of being hunted by the anonymous faces
of a South American meat packing conglomerate.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
I am a contradiction
I am an eighties perm in 2013
I am not thinking
I am not ebbing
I am not flowing
But I am happy
I am seaweed that fails to move with the current
I am the loneliest I have ever felt
I am the most sure of things I have ever been
My mind is an ocean
My heart is a plane
My fingertips hold the pulse of earth's heartbeat
I spin intricate webs of thoughts through the overcrowded bookshelves in my mind
But that's okay
Because when you're lying in bed at 3:18 in the morning
you begin to realize that you don't need to
ebb or flow
Your **** doesn't need to be formed into a
tight and perfect sphere
You can just be
And whether being is
having the puzzle complete or
the pieces scattered across 7 different continents
in the end
it's all just pieces
Incoherent shapes
existing
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
she is always gone
while I sit alone
she is always gone
like the place behind my face.
she's a misty girl
with her dyed blonde perm press
prescription glasses,
mind unfastened
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
Magic is a lost art form
It crawls through your mind like a worm
So many papers written about it for the end of the term
All striving for once single goal to learn learn learn
It might make you get a perm
Causing a riot and making you turn
Give that monkey a new bread crumb
Or he'll succumb to being obnoxiously dumb
But it will probably happen anyway
Because the monkey listens to the fray
While his mother goes home to pray
That his father doesn't travel far away
From his family or his favorite friends
But on his job it all depends
On which locations are best for him
Going by the name of Edward Tim
Who use to frequent his home gym
He Crushed on hot girls named Kim
Kim loved to crash Tim's wonderful parties
Shooting up with a pack of Smarties
Tim wanted her to be a lady
Tim wanted her to be a lady
Because she was pregnant with Tim's baby
Although her mother wanted her to give it up maybe
However Kim wanted to name her baby Sadie.
Tim wanted to name it after his mother.
Kim wanted to name it after her brother.
Both of decided because of each other that it was getting quite dim
With such fuss between Tim and Kim they settled on a name that was another
And prayed that their son would not be dumb
Then he wouldn't be any fun for Kim or Tim
The fat rat sat flat on may's bat
While the sun shined you'll find some fun before the day is done said the trees which they mimed and chimed
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
I’m off out down to town, I’m off out for the night
I’m dressed-up to the nines, oh what a lovely sight.
I’ve got my shiny shoes on, I’ll get in any place
I’ve got my brand-new suit on and my Durex just in case.
I’ve learnt a trendy dance this week I’m off down to the Ritz
I’ll spin and do the moon walk, might even try the splits.
I’ll pick me out a woman and pester her all night
I’ll tell her all about myself and set her heart a light.
Might by myself some bubbly, make them think I’m rich
All the girls will love me and the lads will all be sick.
I’ll wear my Rolex wrist watch and my golden belcher chain,
and my diamond studded cuff-links, might even take a cane.
I’ve been down to the barber’s, for a Kevin Keagan perm
I’ve been under the sunbed for a thirty minute burn.
I’ve plucked out all the hair, from my nose and my ears
I wear a leather G-string; got both ******* pierced.
I move like John Travolta, smile like Steve McQueen
there’s not one thing I’d alter I’m the perfect specimen.
I am a medical marvel, I am a bundle of fun
there’s no one else quite like me; I’m the special one.
The end
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Who convinced who
That curls were “in”
In the years before
I knew to know better?
The smell so strong
Of chemical power
Making my blonde straight strands
Hold the curve of the curlers
Using my pick I kept those locks
Both frothy and fairly formed
Though the pictures of me froze a smile
Inside me the doubt ran deep
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 12:48 AM UTC
the poem started with the word
the
it wasn't a good
the;
it didn't sit on the page right
like a head with a bad perm
another poem started with the word
the
the the
had so much integrity;
it floated on the page like a sun drenched cathedral
i can only surmise the magic of a poem has in it the ineffable soul
of the writer
are the good writers nonchalant
talent dripping
or are they secretly *******
their the's
******* on
the the's
making them gleam
glowing hard
polishing them with a spit shine
so it sits on the page
with a sense of superiority
some poems are nothing but arm pit stains
no matter how good they are
black listed from love
others
stratospheric
sky-blue uniforms
with bright yellow kerchief's
you cant take your eyes from
they are
the
crowning glory
the
the
in the
the
God of the
the's
peaked like a maraschino
with pastel and golden sprinkles
on a ball
of vanilla
a the
like a high end Mercedes
with the scent of lavender
and the magnitude of the
Botafumeiro
a
the
to **** for
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
I was always told my hair texture was bad.
So here comes the white cream.
The white cream is chemical hell.
I can smell it as I write this.
As I got older I realized the white cream took out more than my curls and coils that the Man upstairs scribbled for me.
It took away my temple hairs. It took my chances of having hair past my shoulders.
But the white cream never took my curiosity.
My never ending curiosity of what I would look like if the white cream never took my real hair from me.
My real hair, which was, is, and never will be “bad.”
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC