My curls:
my crown, my naked soul!
Judged as messy,
not neat, not fine,
too wild to fit a borrowed line.
The mirror holds its sacred truth,
reflecting not my glossed-off youth,
but eyes that ache, and curls that scream
of battles buried under sheen.
They taught me “smooth,”
they praised me “straight,”
to tame the wild, to imitate.
To iron dreams till they comply,
to shine, not bloom, to please, not try.
But mirrors lie
and I could see,
the stillness never lived in me.
It cracked beneath that practised grin,
the calm was cages sealed within.
And in the cracks a whisper grew,
a breath once choked, began anew.
The coils unlearned their quiet shame,
and every frizz recalled my name.
The roots reached deep not for acclaim,
but for the earth from where I came.
Their tangled prayers defied the comb,
refused the pull, reclaimed their home.
Each twist a tale, each bend a scar,
a rhythm etched from who we are.
Not ruin no, this storm’s caress
unfolded me to fearlessness.
They called it “wild,” I call it “whole,”
my curls, my crown, my naked soul.
No polish now, no mimicry,
just storm and soil and symmetry.
I’ve shed the gloss, I’ve burned the mold,
I bloom in forms that can’t be told.
Unstraightened truth, unsoftened flame,
a wildness I no longer tame.
So let the shine be theirs to keep
I rise where roots remember deep.
Not new. Not smooth.
But real.
And true!
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