Spike Your Hair For Me + Low Bun

Pass the fucking gel; spike your hair for me? 

Can we run in the street, no socks or shoes; just bras and panties, boxers and love? 

Do you want to crash your car with me? Crash into the ugliest painting, make it new!

You are beautiful to me, you, and all your spikes, ridges, bumps, bruises, cuts, scars, and scrapes. 

They find us funny when we stop and stare at the blankness. 

The blank canvas, painted white, named pure.

Pass the fucking joint, light my fire, and tell me a story. 

A story about my own eyes. 

A story that goes on and on until our lips smush into dirt and grime. 

I’m a colored girl with no stage; sing for me, sing!

Your brown and my brown look so beautiful at this time of night. 

Crying holding my hands, crying holding your body. 

Don’t cry. 

Spike your fucking hair and scream with me. 

Scream with me in the middle of this dark street. 

Scream with me and know I will never forget the sound of your music. 

Spike your hair and stop worrying about what they like.
Spike your hair and love every second of it.

Spike your hair and scream with me. 

Low Bun

When standing in the mirror, blue and grey, slick the hair, unlock the braids, stare into the space-conscious lays, construct a precise and perfect ball of hair, and slap it into place.