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Amma doesn’t look at me the same way.

She used to love my hair.

It was long


It used to curl a little at the end and form little waves

It was deep and dark, almost a perfect black

And she would oil it to make it even richer

weaving Love and Tradition

Into my hair.

Now that’s dead.

Last Saturday, I was determined.

Nothing could stop me

Because that hair

That hair she loved

I loathed.

While she saw waves,

I felt weight.

A weight on my back

A weight, omnipresent

A weight within myself.

It was like a little seed

Planted in my brain, I don’t know when

But I had cared for it

Watered it

Let it grow.

Its roots