🖊 WRITE 🖊

When I’ve neatly braided my hair and then wash it, massage it, or dance just once or twice, I notice and feel that one braid after another has already started to come loose—barely a day or two later. Let alone after a week of dancing, massaging, washing, and running around to check off my to-do lists.

I get the urge to cut a bit off the ends to even them out. This works temporarily; the next day a few other strands decide to slip even lower.

I’ll just hold it all together on one side of my head with elastic bands so it doesn’t fly everywhere while I’m walking around outside, pretending this is a normal look🥲.

Dancing with my hair neatly bound to the side feels unpleasant—I need it to flow freely when I dance. But when I let it down, it’s obvious how imperfect it is.

Soit*.

*Though my toxic parent mode does care a lot about my appearance, especially my hair.

Although the discomfort of my hair catches attention, I’m starting to feel a little proud of cultivating this flame within me. Proud of step by step trying to find a sweet spot between burning all bridges and nurturing this flame so it gives just the right warmth to sit by.

The fiery side of me has awakened a little more—a side that often only surfaces in a romantic relationship.

Cultivating this force on my own feels both exciting and chaotic.