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What They Take From Us
She stole my hair.
I watched the strands drift to the toilet,
to the floor, to my lap. Her hands
were abrupt and rough when she touched me.
They always were.
Her words were the same. They jerked
from tight lips and were full of accusation.
I was angry.
But it was a background emotion. I was
preoccupied with the physics of hair falling
around me. I wanted to observe
and understand.
She wanted to cut away the work I
hadn't known I made for her.
She took it down to my scalp.
I was teased
for looking like a boy. For wearing a badge.
that everyone knew meant,
"I'm the kid with lice."

She stole my hair.
Yanked it and pulled it tight, trapped it
in plastic rods and drowned it
in chemical that burned my skin.
I couldn't breathe.
But grandma told...