The hair comes running down her back
A tumble of black waves, thick as rope
Catching in her shirt, forming sweat on her neck
Every which way she turns, it tangles itself further
Frustrated, she knots it at the back of her head
And sticks a pencil in it for security
But the further she walks, the more strands squirm out
So she gives up, and lets the rope fall down again
Sweating heavily, she curses her waves
And swears one day she will chop them off
But the thought sends chills through her sweating frame
As insecurity courses through her confident veins
For she is fully convinced that every compliment
She has ever received
Has been for her hair,
Never her face.
By Emanuela
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