Pixie Cuts

The same tears I shed, she’d shed before me.

Her blue pixie cut was always matched with a ribbon, fish nets, a short skirt and a band tee that had been passed down by Tata.

My eyes that came 5 years after hers grew with admiration 

  I wanted to be her.

Blue pixie cuts turned pink as I turned 10.

We had come from the same womb, talked at the same dinner table and I would listen–

To the music she liked, her cool friends who would swing by, why womanhood was sacred.

She’d sneak outside and smoke, she’d gotten them from a place that wondered if she was 15 or 19.

Pink pixie cuts turned green as I turned 11.

I watched her with eyes of wonder, my burgundy docs waiting for me at the entryway, ones that she had worn before me but black.

I cut my hair short, dyed a streak purple

All in hopes for her notice.

I tried to draw and write in prose

  All in hopes for her to notice.

A Coca-Cola hairpin would always sit in her secret drawer, one I would look through when she was out, she would come home and I’d be wearing the pin in my hair–

She wouldn’t get mad.

I looked at her as if she was a God, one I wanted to emulate power from.

Green pixie cuts turned to a buzz cut as I turned 12.

I wondered why they’d taken her to a strange place when she left for a week.

I brought her some bits and bites, her favourite snack, I’d hoped she noticed–

I remembered they were her favourites.

Short skirts and band tees became superhero shirts and plaid button-downs, which eventually became suits and shiny dress shoes.

She’d shined the shoes for years and years, waiting for me to walk in them, hoping to make my trek easier 

Buzz cuts became unruly curls, woven with liberty.