I like the way they spiral

twirling and tickling my neck.

they get prettier when they drench

the floor and my skin. 

They get wild and mischevous

breaking combs and little blue balls 

tied together with string.

They give my mother grief

as she rakes her fingers 

and wages war using chemical warfare and petroleum.

Those coils fight and struggle, sprouting out of my head in spikes, 

angry of my betrayal, and defies me even greater.

 I chopped them off.

They fell to the floor, decorating it 

with black snow, black clumps of cotton.

My head feels strange and vevelty when I rub it.

They came back with a vengeance, making my fingers squeal

with glee when they feel such cotton silk strands.

They twist and trap my fingers, my combs, my thoughts.

They talk to me from their roots; they tell me where I came from. 

Heritage, Culture, a Past many have overlooked.

My skin no longer defies me, only the roots and spiral coils that fan 

out like a lion's mane, daring the world to question it.

They, those nerve-wracking silk tornadoes that damage yet create

a world so divine,

is an extension of me.