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“Decolonize your mind before you become a new black slave.” He whispered to me before pushing one of his dreads behind his ear and grinning wildly at my perplexed expression. I lowered the straightener and stared at him for a while – I had loved him because of the way he was self-assured, it never faltered and I knew an explanation would follow as I leaned forward, raising an eyebrow, questioning him.
“You know you’re a queen right?” He continued, interrupting my train of thought, while turning off the straightener at the plug point.
“Ja, I know.” I answered blatantly.  
“ Then decolonize your mind.” He shouted before thrusting his hands into the sky and exiting my room. I think he knew I would figure it out for myself because as I stared at the straightener on my desk- it clicked. The statement vibrated in the very depths of my soul and an untapped reserve of energy was suddenly channelled into my aura. I could feel my ancestors, I could hear their cries, I could feel the weight of shackles, I could feel a whip, I could feel resentment, I could feel hatred, I could feel the power of a God who didn’t look like me, I could feel my peoples names that were written out of history books, I could taste blood in my mouth, I could feel blood on the cotton, I could feel what it meant to be black.
It was an epiphany, induced both by drink as well as the stench of my burnt hair. The epiphany spoke to me, reminding me that who I am was holy. That black was undeniably beautiful and not in the clichéd way that I learnt of in history when people averted their eyes, avoiding discomfort presented in an unacknowledged truth. It was in earnest, that I realised that my melanin was paramount to a glorious dynasty that I was privileged enough to be a part of. I would wear my ancestry daily and no longer shy away from the truth of my being. I am sun kissed, I am regal, I am Cleopatra, I am King Shaka, I am the soil and the trees and everything that matters in this universe, I am a closed fist lifted in a rally where mercy has intersected rage, resulting in non-violence.
The only violence that is accepted is that which vehemently opposes the status quo that my people are not good enough. That is what was meant when he told me to decolonize my mind.
“ You will be villianized in your pursuit for emancipation because the margin of melanin present in our people will always render you a slave so choose now what you will subscribe to. “ and I made a decision, standing upon the raw backs of my ancestors- I chose a discarded truth and the truth is this-  I am art. We, are art and art cannot be subjugated or castrated by a close minded agenda, set by people who have never bothered to understand you nor will they ever begin to.
I am  a poem that breathes and speaks and therefor has no choice but to be remembered. I will be etched into the minds of people who would rather forget me. I will be written down in history books next to men who would rather deny my existence.
In that moment, in my epiphany, I began to wade barefoot through my soul. I began to find pieces of myself I didn’t know where lost – and is that not courage in itself? Finding the corpse of your soul, buried beneath a cruel, mercilessly pale agenda?
          
Is speaking the truth not brave?
So I set down the straightener, and began to live.
This was my English narrative essay that I know I'm going to be marked down for. Let Peace, positivity and light live on.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The badge of pride as a ******* in high school
was dunking your inflamed limbs
into an ice bucket for 20 minutes,
in Mr. Dewey’s office —
the school trainer AND
every girl's crush.

I always wanted  someone to pour
ice water over my sores,
and ****** always being healthy enough
as Jess told the teacher loudly enough
that she hurt her ankle at track AGAIN
needed to see Dewman.
Guess they were best friends now.
****

When I fractured my back, I didn’t even get a doctor's note.
Because I wasn’t on a school team.
I was a gymnast for an outside club, not high school varsity.
My high school had disbanded the gymnastics team in the 70’s.
Said it was too much of a liability.
The last team picture hung in the award cases on the first floor.
I wished I could be one among those vintage leotards,
framed in gold — the warriors of high school.
Most of my classmates didn’t know I even did a sport.
They just thought I was a bookworm who was flat-chested.
Only the girls poked my abs in the locker room,
asking how I got them.

So I iced my wounds at home.
I didn’t even know my back was broken
and for a month I drank ibuprofen.
Sharp pains biting more frequently,
I finally went to the doctor.
The nurse asked me if I wanted to look
while she injected me with an isotope that
poisoned my dreams of finishing the season.
Green neon lit my bones, shedding the diagnosis —
no gymnastics for six weeks.

At school, I dressed to fit my backbrace:
baggy t-shirts and sweatpants.
My straightener rusted.
Messy buns took precedence.
I tried to go to practice, but my coaches told me to leave.
But I had no where to be!
And I had no friends at school.
My only friends I watched get awards,
not registered, but wearing my warmups.
I swore how I could beat the competition from the stands.
Stupid back.
Stupid Christine.
Stupid me.
I should have never done that 1 1/2 twist front flip series.
Poor bones landing on hard carpet repeatedly,
I ignored the jolts as static electricity.

Now everyone was working on new skills
and I could barely do a cartwheel.
That summer we had lots of pool parties —
but I couldn’t dive in.
So I sat on the ledge,
feet dipped in, while everyone played chicken.

— — —

After six weeks of recovery,
I start jogging.
I did a roundalf,
then a backhandspring.
That night I was so sore —
my memory of skills strong, but
my muscle memory poor.
Each stride into a tumbling pass felt like running in a pool.
Some days I felt like sprinting down the tumble-track
Other days I wanted to bounce on my back,
stare at the ceiling, and feel each node of impact.

Recovery day was my coach laying down a mat.
Today was the day I’d repeat the skill that broke my back.
I took a deep breathe and three long steps
into the first part of the tumbling pass:
roundoff,
backhandspring,
back layout one-and
a-half twist, front flip
stuck into a step.
My coaches cheered and
my friends clapped.

I was back.

Yes.

I was back.
I once sold a hair straightener to a woman going through keemo

I once sold a a weight loss supplement to a girl struggling with anoerexia.

I once sold female libido enhancers to a forty year old man.

Sold a car to a Parapalegic

Sold a telephone to a deff woman.

I once sold a child an imaginary friend.
And a Vaccuum for their sandbox.

I once sold a soul to a telemarketing company.

They paid me in biweekly installments.
And they got a hell of a deal.
Delaney Miller Mar 2014
Moment,
A suicide letter I write in 8th grade.
I heat metal chains
with my straightener.
Press.
Watch as sink holes
begin to expand in my hand.

Maybe,
A list of considerations.
Starting to see the crimson crust,
the weeping sores,
furrowed skin,
the combust of myself as beautiful.

Mimic,
I think I am copying my mother.
She sinks into her sheets,
a mess soaking into a towel.
Us only speaking when she finds
something to yell about.

Maniac,
The day I forgot to wear long sleeves.
My mother takes my straightener,
metal chains, scissors, “You’re crazy”
Pens curler, pencils, I’m Crazy.

Maternal,
I try to find a mother in a therapist.
Scar cream fills the sink holes.
The left over sores only remind
me of the depressed image of ill bed sheets.

Moral,
Learning that misshaping myself
would never fix the sick in her voice.
Watching as my hand
Extinguished the charcoaled
Sores with new skin.

Memory,
Looking at my left hand
and the scars that have
become only small ashes
of a fire.
Only a moment.

©DelaneyMiller
Redshift Sep 2013
baby got back.
baby got
sleeping problem
baby got
too-much-ice-cream-not-enough-vegetables-problem
baby got
bad case of the mean reds
baby got
curly hair problem
baby got
stepped-on-her-hair-straightener-problem
baby got
cat trouble
baby got
unattractive-boy problem
baby got
sore guitar fingers
baby got
too lazy to do laundry problem
baby got
smile-problem
baby got
elliot-problem
baby got
stress problem
baby got
anxiety problem
baby gonna
need help
they say
baby's in trouble
they say
baby needs a shovel
baby needs a backhoe
baby needs a drill
but baby's a girl,
so what baby really needs
is a man
to do the work
how about no
Jess Sandler May 2014
I apologize for the stains on the pillow case,
I could not hold it in again.
The black that seeps into the flowers on the edge,
Are just from my eyes,
A little makeup remover should do the job fine.
The clothes missing from the closet are all mine, I swear.
I left your jerseys on the dresser, folded under the picture of us.
Please forgive the mess in the kitchen,
I began to make pancakes, but found myself in a heap on the floor,
While the batter bubbled under the stove.
I was sobbing because I am going to miss everything about this house.
That is no reason to stay here, I know that now.
I will miss Sundays, the smell of brunch from the hall,
And the glow of the tv when you fall asleep.
I found you countless times on the couch,
But never thought to move you to the bed.

The bathroom should be in good order,
The hair straightener will finally be out of your way.
I cleaned up the hair that I shed all over the house,
Because I know how much you hate it.
I began to vacuum the carpets, but I kept crying on them,
The hot tears would dry under the vacuum,
But I couldn't find the energy to keep going.

I know you won't understand why I am leaving,
Which is why this letter is for you,
And why I can't be here when you come home.
Your blue eyes would just drag me back to bed,
Like they have a hundred times.
I couldn't handle the grayness of your love anymore,
The way you couldn't commit to the distant future,
Or even to tomorrow.
We shared a house for ***** sake.
I hope you find the one you need,
I hope she cleans better than me,
I'm sorry that I am hurting you.
But I am happy that this is for me.
Sincerely,
Me
Fiona Jun 2020
i want to stop
checking my body,
wiggling the door ****,
counting the fatalities,
searching my symptoms,
and asking for reassurance.

i want to be able to leave,
not doubting
that i turned the straightener off,
that i shut the toilet lid,
that i locked the door.

i want to be able to sleep at night
without tapping
the doorknob
to make sure it's locked,
or else someone will break in.

i don't want to
be scared
when i see the number 13,
or be unable to
wear a certain sweater
without the fear of being sick.

but instead of staying habitual
i have become avoidant.
Angela Alegna Jun 2014
I'm in my bed half warm with the other half as cold as this solemnity you've left me in
I have one leg wrapped around the sheets where you formally lied and the other hanging like the pieces of my mangled heart
Struggling to maintain equilibrium or tumble past sheets of broken lies into the crevice of my untold truths right under my bed
The rain pours as if forcing itself down my rib cage to remind me that I'm alive despite my mangled body in it's contorted position without it's straightener of you
The rain it pours yet I can't hear it
I hear the silence
And I feel you once again feeling my skin from hip bone to the depth of the rivers inside me
Running your fingers on my African canvas with your Southern confederate rakes and flags etching yourself onto me
Leaving me scarred
Until every time I look down at me, I see you
Oh the irony
The tale of white man leaves his African prey once again.
Melody Goodner Jun 2014
Mum
in sixth grade,
she hands me
one eyeliner pencil
and a thing of mascara
and says good luck.

in seventh grade,
i ask for a hair straightener.
we buy one the cheapest one
and i teach her how to use it.

at 16 years old,
i ask her to braid my wet hair.
she combs over my ears
and pulls too far to the left.

i’m 19, staring into a mirror
at a painted face that looks
far from my own, hair i did myself.
i smile because it is my work of art.
i cry because she never taught me a thing.
Payton Elizabeth Apr 2016
Never forget to turn your straightener off
Always thank your teachers
Buy your clothes because you feel pretty in them, not because it's what everyone is wearing now
Don't give yourself up to the wrong guy, even if he seems like the right guy
Eat your vegetables and finish your dinner
Take off the makeup, you don't need it
No, you don't look fat in that dress
Always pray before bed, it helps trust me
Appreciate your first kiss and tell me before you tell your dad
Don't be selfish, share everything that you can
Be with the guy who makes you laugh
Go to every game and school dance offered
Appreciate the weekend bonfires
Get a job and save your money
Always carry sunglasses in your purse
Pick the college you want to go to, not because it's closer to your boyfriend
Don't sleep in your makeup, you'll ruin the pillows
Set more than one alarm
Go to church even when you have lost your faith
Call me if you got yourself into trouble, and no I will not get mad
Keep a blanket and gloves in your car at all times
Kiss me and your father goodbye every time you leave
Call your grandparents more often
Do it today, don't wait until tomorrow
Appreciate the small things like Sunday morning coffee and hammocks
Take lots of pictures
And always love yourself first
LS Jun 2014
How do you do it?
Sit in bed with the poster
Of Ariel I colored
And labeled
'to my Disney princess'
I wonder if you looked at it
And hated it and tore it down.
How do you look at your bed
And see my blanket I gave you
Saying "relax"?
I wonder if you laughed a little
At that word, because
You couldn't relax to save your life.
How do you go in your bathroom
And see my pink hair straightener?
I wonder if it made you cry
Because memories of me straightening
Your hair for you and
Getting distracted and kissing you
Were too much to handle...
How do you do it?
Redshift Mar 2013
*******.

i woke up this morning
rejoicing
in the strength with which
i slammed the door
in your face
and i was entirely fine
i even almost slept
ok
last night
didn't have to puzzle
over all the useless words
you ever said to me
(...maybe they weren't useless...)
and of course
i ***** myself once again
i managed to forget
to remove all the songs
we sang together
from my playlist
and as i stand here,
a hair-straightener tangled
in my hair
'smile' comes on
**** you
uncle
kracker

i
smiled
Amanda Stoddard Sep 2016
The ambivalence
   trickles down my throat,
I feel it settling
   inside of my stomach.
Indecision makes it's way into
   every part of me.

I'm whimpering
from the devastation.

Painstakingly
stagnant.

Taking the necessary
measure so I can breathe.

Still it sits
   like acid
   inside of my stomach.
Awaiting the moment
   I regurgitate it all back to you.

Memorizing the pain
like warning signs-
   sketchy shadows
   in a parking lot
so I kept my doors locked.
Turned the radio down
so I could prepare
for anything that would
make me afraid again.

You are the locked door
and the anxiety
of not remembering
if I took the right
precautions this time.

Maybe I didn't
check my rear view
    close enough
and I have no idea
a car has been
   following me for miles-
checking my progress
   watching as I switch lanes
   making sure I'm aware
   of the imminent threat
   it poses towards my future.

You are the stove
   I can't remember if I left on.
You are the straightener
   that burned a hole
   through my carpet.
I was unaware
   of the heat-
   or the consequences
I just wanted to feel full-
   to feel pretty.

I'm always looking backwards
   at the damage
   that has been made of me.
Seems I'm always
   looking over my shoulder
expecting for you
to be standing there
   reminding me why
   there is nothing left of me.
The pieces I have
taped together have
your initials outlined
in the remains.
   I can't rid of you-
Or the inhibition
  or the hindrance
left inside of my bones.
I am a weak, frail
   skeleton of a person.

Now I always,
keep my doors locked.
Elena Smith Dec 2015
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Eric Hesner Jan 2021
Each dull wheeze
— half-glass-filling lungs, tarred —
records my moments
like reel-to-reel tape
And the heart is a quivering branch
If not a paperweight
Pinning will and testament to the
desk

That plastic wine “glass”
turned out
to be
glass after all
My woman throws me punches
with the gentle touch
— all the virility —
of a little, lonely, old man
feeding bread
to ducks
Then goes to work on the meat of her hand
with the glass
Damages the nerves in her thumb
   tussle ensues
My arms are covered in blood
That two-penny copper smell

sister’s fella has anger issues
and wants a straightener
Tells me I need a job —
Is this not work?
If I had Molly’s blessing
I’d go to work on this *******
But she’s crying
And begs me not to
Begs him to calm down
I wanted to widow her
Her
And my bleeding wife
King Panda Jun 2018
my laughing river
banks the shivering pebbles
into silence—a hot, holy
moon that splits and crumbles,
rushes and spills into
a space vacu-ata and serene
loss of meaning

I never thought I’d miss you this much—
red, toiled, and soaked to the bone,
letters and numbers jumbled to bake
in hot mouths, hot atmosphere  

a shimmer
a shimmy
a bottle
and nurse a wound burnt with
a hair straightener ten years ago
dear friend,

I wear you on my shoulders everyday
and you are heavy,
sore to the touch,
cradled and band aid-ed cross
until
there you are
dreaming like you always did
in the back of my mind
dweeb Oct 2016
I'm still young and I'm still learning.
Still learning how to go 25 in a neighborhood.
don't wanna **** no body, don't wanna **** time.

I got places to be. still haven't learned the quickest way home, or the longest way for when you're in the passenger seat, because talking to you feels a lot like opening my front door and being greeted by the smell of a warm welcome.

I'm still learning how to decorate my room, but I've put the dead flowers in jars and I'm down to one floral pillowcase now so I guess you can call that progress.

I haven't quite discovered enough large words with large meaning or enough small words with large meaning or anything above, below, or in between.

I still burn my wet hair in my straightener since I don't have a clue how to manage time, still undercook pasta, and fill the blender too full.

can't get my eyebrows even the first time, but **** I'm not a miracle worker. I'm still learning.

trying to grasp the idea of being outgoing. trying to act like I totally didn't cry trying to order Wendy's chicken nuggets one time because normal people can talk to other normal people without feeling like someone's tuggin' at their throat.

still learning how to eat cheetos puffs without looking like I stuffed my hand into well, cheetos puffs.

I read up on government and politics but to be real I don't give a **** so we'll skip it.

I'm still learning how to trust, how to hold your hand tight enough, how to kiss you with enough force but not too much. how to look at you without showin' what i'm thinkin'. how to look at you when you look at me like you're about to say that you're in love with me.

I'm still learning how to love so you gotta **** some time. go 25 like I'm a neighborhood children are playing in. darling, let's take this slow.
Charmaine Jun 2021
O Curls

my 3a-3b locks

im sorry for the **** i put you through

all the bleaching, heating, and treatments

trying to make you something you're not

for the times i tried to make you the standard

thinking my uniqueness wasn't attractive enough

i hurt you but you had been damaged

long before the straightener

when that boy in the desk behind you would pull your hair

you pretended you didn't notice

when those white folks touched it without your permission

pointing & prodding like you were an alien

when people lost pencils and coins and spitballs in your tangles for amusement

only for you to find at your feet in the shower

When you were told to be straightened

to look “safer” and “more professional”

when he screamed  “shut the **** up medusa *** *****”

naming you as a monster to silence the both of us

the first time i singed you i was met with

“you should do this more often! it looks so much better this way!”

and in an instant the straightener became my drug

a one time thing became the fix i needed for instant confidence

finally i looked like i belonged

like the girls at my school, on TV and in magazines

I let myself believe that to love me, I had to erase you

you are, in fact, what makes me

people notice you before they notice me

But that is because we work together, you and i

to make this “mufasa roar”

I’ll nurse you through the damage the world caused

The damage I caused,

Because my hair will not be quiet for anyone that asks

Im sorry that it took this long

But thank you for teaching me how to be

unapologetic, unique, authentic

Thank you for teaching me

How to be me
Untitledheart Feb 2019
I woke up today.
Wow I'm proud!
Texts "goodmorning, I hope you had a good sleep and have a good day"
I stretch my body to the point where I hope every bone breaks out of place and ligaments do not bounce back
With failure, I step forward, put on my best skirt and shirt, wishwashing my hair around in the mirror until I realize I need to tame my mane
I gather my tools and proceed groggily to plug the straightener into the outlet
Hoping an electric shock may find me spasming on the ground
With failure, I brush my hair, parting ways through the sea where Israel could pass through but Pharoah would perish
I watch as the numbers rise to the temperature I like to bake brownies at
As it reaches the high, I hope for a malfunction which will set me on the bathroom floor, fried as if someone forgot the brownies in the oven
With failure, I begin to make straight my crookedness
I watch as with each pass I burn my hands searching for hiding waves
I slowly run through piece after piece hoping for the cord to strangle and burn me around the neck so I am left for empty
With failure, I look in the mirror and smile, isn't she beautiful!
I wrote this very passive aggressively to myself. It is true, I don't have the best relationship with me. This is actually a very funny poem once you get about halfway through and everything just seems ridiculous.
Elena Smith Dec 2015
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Elena Smith Dec 2015
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Sav May 2019
When I was young,

I had my hair done for me.

Ponytails, pigtails, whatever.

And then it being the '90's.

My hair was chopped off due to lice.

I cried, and cried. I was in the second grade.

"I look like my grandma..."

I thought.

Years go by of growing it out.

Boys used to pull on it,
as if
I were a
doorbell.

My hair was long but I did not know what to do with it.

I would spray it with foam, or spritz.

I did whatever I could to it.

I burnt it with a straightener.

I was even silly enough to use a curler on my already naturally curly hair.

Like I said,

I had no idea what I was doing.

Then I chopped it off.

Like it was nothing.

And I didn't care.

It's growing back now.

Almost to my *** which is what I wanted from the start.

Sometimes you have to lose before you gain.

Hair I mean.

— The End —