my hair bleeds purple when i sleep

dark, violet, translucent in the way that sausage fat boiling on the pan is

before it touches a towel

in the way that a ghost’s imprint is before fingerprints are left on the kitchen counter

in the way that black bodies are

before they find themselves in front of the barrel of a gun

before they become that ghost

before the pus leaking from the wound touches a tshirt a hood

the towel they are wrapped up in before reaching the stretcher

and they are dead meat, sold by link, five bullets per pound,

fifteen bullets per pound, twenty-three bullets per pound.

to save money on hospital bills the medics pronounce them dead

to prevent the wasting of money on someone who would’ve died / been left anyways

they are pronounced dead

maybe if i were in the absence of color my hair wouldn’t bleed,

it would drip, straight down, following the lines, rivulets of clear water down my locks

clear as my conscious as i tell myself that i am not a racist

that my were parents were / are

clear as my reflection in

the water i see myself and i can smile will not have to change myself

to fit the image of a black pariah in america

i use coconut oil in my kinky hair because it makes me feel at home

when it freezes into the hard shell of itself that can only be soothed

with the warm pulse of a human hand i see myself

there is no harm that comes from coconut oil,

but its opponent dark & lovely deep conditioner is its antithesis, it makes me bleed

store brand, average, bought when my pockets were too empty

to search for the solace of the barest, the best, coconut itself

they repackage what i know, they call it original,

make me smile with a cardboard cutout black face on the label

remove the sense from my head as i reach to the shelf

forgetting the black owned businesses that exist, that they need me, that i need them

i empty my pockets out for you and you make me bleed

because the money i spent on your white product takes away

from what i could’ve put in communities that would help quell the bullets

that would bandage the wound / that would keep us alive / but i chose the alternative

and as it makes me bleed i

remember how purple used to be my favorite color

until it wasn’t

how royalty is dressed in fine robes of that hue, the shade tantalizing

but there are no more queens in my country

my color has already been assigned to me, black, the absence of light,

and because purple is just a refraction of the sun in a prism

holding a multitude of colors within itself,

it is no wonder that i do not partake in its equiption