My hand traces the overgrowth of your hairs: Like they're supposed to be a map of your heart Gently caressing the fraying edges, pulling at the looser pieces I find tiny fragments of you at their ends. The fragile parts that fall apart easier than old bread flakes in the palms of one who never learnt to hold things delicately. The purples of fear stain my fingers Cling on like a child that believes the earth is lava and their mother; my fingers are immovable objects that never break, never falter, never die. The color tells me that no woman has ever feared a loving God more. The red in your scalp pushes at me. Denies there's a purple to begin with. It soaks into your thick wool-blanket hair and dyes it. It spills onto your face. It's hot. The same hotness as fresh pee between your legs as you realize you never really left your bed. Same as your mother's cheeks as you walk into the kitchen to tell her the same story again. Like your teacher screaming at you because you're crying. God forbid 7 year olds cry. Your roots are dyed the darkest hues of blue. The kinds of blue that plunges the sea into darkness and turns blood green. It's blotchy, hidden under a sea of red, but if you're as used to digging, with frozen fingers and broken nails as I am, you know there's always water hidden under the toughest parts. Like watching the color get drained out of your mother's face year after year as... We both never left the room. Your roots talk about your sadness like all your pain was released on your lawn yesterday I study it, stare a bit too long, At how it thaws over and consumes life and leaves your lawn frozen over and white. I bend in to kiss your head. My mother's kisses drove pain away Your hair tells me we are all the same and asks if there's a God who would love you all the same.