I died my hair purple.
You say you love it,
like all of my mistakes.
It doesn’t go so deep that it changes my laugh,
or how I make you feel warm;
it's just the frayed ends of my hair
that I should cut soon, anyway.
It’s not that purple, really.
It’ll grow out.
And if I like it? If this is who I really am?
I’ll grow out of it.
You assure me that you know me,
and because my hair was blond
and I meant for it to stay that way,
I believe you.