The sky is crashing, falling,
driving her
to scabbed knees
and gruesome toiling.
Like Atlas,
her hair holds the expanse of sunlit blue
and white speckled black –
bruising every muscle of her neck.
Her hair grows wide and strong,
surrounding her like a halo
to hold the world
alone.
In that mass of tendrils – pain, heartbreak, strength, beauty and fathomless grace. I wish I could understand but my life was easy. And my hair grew straight.
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