My hair was always dark—
A quiet oath to who I’d been.
It clung to me like truth,
Framing features I had learned to love.
Even as a girl, I wandered shades—
But the dark always called me home.
Strangers knew me by its wave,
Its certainty, its ease.
It was mine.
And it was enough.
Until you.
You liked bright.
You liked wild.
You liked her—
The red that lit your eyes.
So I told myself,
Maybe if I bled the dark away,
You’d see me with that same fire.
So I sat beneath the light and bowl,
Watched bleach strip years from my strands,
Watched red bleed into who I was,
Not because I loved it,
But because you might love me.
You said you liked it.
So I added more.
Layered hope on top of damage,
Waiting for your heart to catch.
And it did.
You liked me—or at least the version
I burned myself to become.
But now, in the quiet of my mirror,
I meet a stranger with copper strands,
Not the girl who knew her worth,
But one who traded it away
For something small
And fleeting.
I miss the girl who never asked
If she was enough.
I miss the dark.
I miss the strength.
I miss the truth
That once lived in my reflection.
And now I know—
Love that demands you change
Will never hold the parts
You buried to be chosen.
I should’ve never gone red.
Not for you.
Not for anyone.
Not at the cost of me.
