Curls

I’ve done everything to quiet you,

Heatwaves and chemical warfare,

Every plastic bottle with the promise to tame, never satisfied, cursing strands with minds of their own, an enemy of myself.

I’d look in the mirror for hours

patting and pressing and pulling,

thinking with each touch that I could

work some miracle, dull my hair’s spirit.

She was the girl who laughed too loud, who always meant it;

how could she always mean it?

Is anyone actually that happy?

I wanted to cover her mouth, to get to the bottom of the insecurity beneath her bellows of laughter, but she kept on smiling, clothes pressed, posture perfect, ray of sunshine.

Every morning I’d shush her, every curl a giggle, a song on repeat in my head for as long as I could remember,

but I’d never really listened to the words, never moved to the beat, never paid mind to the dips or crescendos.

What if all the answers were in her song, the truth, the peace, the life I’d tried to turn lifeless? What if her resilience was a sign of my own strength? She’d overcome it all, snapping back no matter what I did to strip her of her character.

I am my curls;

I am unapologetically untame,

I am the girl who laughs until it hurts to breathe, who likes the sound of my own voice, whose spirit yells at the top of its lungs because it can’t help but announce itself.

For the first time, I am listening.