My ex-Spanish professor is surprised when my friend mentions I've dyed my hair blue. And this surprise is exactly why I dyed it in the first place. I don't want to always be the girl who hardly breathes in class, who never thinks to raise her hand, who has nothing to say, who is just filling a desk in a classroom. And so I've dyed the ends of my hair blue, like I am becoming someone else, emerging from blackness into brilliance. A metamorphosis, the bolt of lightning that turns man into The Flash. Like maybe I can bleach out my fears, hold onto some semi-permanent bravado. When I sit with the tin foil, I am dyeing more than my hair. When I rinse the excess dye out and it slithers down the drain pipe, the smell gasps around me and the rest of the war paint clings tightly to my hair. When I look at the four inches of blue at the tips of my hair in the mirror and think that girls with blue hair do not tremble when they speak, that girls with blue hair are alive and electric, that girls with blue hair need to have opinions, and that girls with blue hair are me.
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apr 7, 2017
tbh i was too lazy to figure out line breaks
VOUS LISEZ
watterson
Poésiean experimental attempt to write a poem a day for the month of april spoiler alert: i did it
