The hair that grows from my scalp.
A love so deep that my heart pours from each twist and curl.
A love so coarse that I can feel my ancestor's touch.
A love so saturated that I become emboldened.
A political love.
One that doesn't seek to please a society that can't move past its eurocentric beauty standards.
A life of its own.
The curls that grow from my scalp.
Not everything to my existence.
My hair does not claim me.
My hair does not define me.
My hair does not control me.