You promised to be gentle, “Tear-free,” but

my eyes burned with the wrath of rain ready

to hydroplane a family. I forgave you

 

because you had a cartoon octopus

and made my hair smell like pink. 

You always told me me beauty beauty beauty 

​

but I’ve outgrown you. Now you’re just an

accomplice to conditioner, a mere

condition a part of my hygienic contract. 

​

The conditioner bottles lied, too. 

“Damage repair,” they advertised, 

only I’m still damaged. Then again, 

​

only so much can be undone 

from a brush in a mother’s grip, 

a week with scissors on the brain, 

​

and bleach to wash it all away. 

You stripped me of the dye meant 

to be my genesis, purple bubbles 

​

slipped down the drain. 

“Color safe:” that was a lie, too. 

My ashen brows furrow 

​

As stormy eyes stare at

raspberry roots planted in a scalp

that roofs a cherry past.