My reflection swallows round my eyes like twisted hair beads and pink oil

while the mirror leaks a frightening truth

that I go mad to.

I hold the wishing in my fingers

drenched in castor, tea tree, and peppermint

my scalp only blooms red

                                         and empty

so this time I pray in gel and satin

and slicked down illusions

that break to the slip of pale brown patches across my head.

The tears seize to swivel outside me

as vanity clenches to the quiver of my chin

and I grow nought and powerless to the motions.

Instead I seek beginnings in empty jars and old photos

“It must have been the tightness of those braids,

or the flaking in that foam”

sticking blame to each fleshy piece on my forehead.

They say I look alot like my Mother,

but in this way I’m akin to my Dad.

So I’ll watch the dragged onslaught of this future

while my body grows beside it

warm

and soft

and candied.

For there are many ways

to walk into womanhood.