Weeds

I cut my hair off
to look like a Spice Girl

It’s not something parents
will tell you,

Why the other girls make
me the Yellow Power Ranger.
Laugh when I wear the Red
lipstick. Call me Dog
when we play house.

Pull and brush, but the ends
shrink to my scalp. I want to rip
them out and be bald.

I wish I could regrow, pale
as cream, crowned in ruby
or gold like Cinderella,
like Aurora, like my
Mother

but I am not my Mother
and these curls are not waves of grain.

They are tendrils tied
to a dark root, thick
from being torn, sick
of trying to bloom for those
that call us — Weeds