Bleach blonde braids fall across my shoulders
as caramel curls caress my cheeks all for the low, low price
of my life’s savings and a bottle of bleach
The weight of the foils
lies steady against the coils
stripping the strands of their pigment, removing cool tones of chocolate
to assert the perverse notion that blondes have more fun.
These fraying strands symbolize not a life of grandeur or excitement, but one of sacrifice-
for a platinum glow to compliment my porcelain complexion.
We are the victims
of the bottle!
Trapped inside our homes by barricades of broke banks in hopes that one day,
we may finally
have more fun.