5.10 poem

They tell me I have white hair like it's the beginning of an end. 

They tell me I have white hair, like they are suprised that life goes on. 

They tell me I have white hair, like I wouldn't know that I carry my life on my locks, on my nails, on my forehead. 

They tell me that everyday, like I need to hide it, dye it, change myself to match whatever expectations you imagine you are allowed to project on me. 

They tell me me I have white hair, like I haven't lived 3 lives already. They tell it like it couldn't have happened to me and offer solutions, nothing that a cheap dye tub won't fix. 

They say it like they have the right to.