The different textures of hair never fail to fascinate me.

I have my father's hair, not the dash of salt-and-pepper that seems to wipe away the lines on his forehead, but the smooth flatness that remains unfazed even under the most blazing summer sun.

My mother's hair is like hay — it jolts me every time I see it because it is so unlike mine when so much of me is simply taken from her, stolen and carved right out of her body against her will.

But I didn't start this poem to continue the tradition of coddling blameless mothers and antagonising cruel fathers that we have gotten so comfortable with:

I love the texture of your hair and I wanted to tell you about it in far too many words than either you or I are comfortable with.

I love the texture of your hair because it is the texture of my hair and it is the texture of my father's hair.

I know

just what it would feel like to run my fingers through the invisible knots in it;

I also know what I would experience while touching the jagged ends of your hair —

the remnants of the cool surgery table will coat the bottom of my tongue with a barely bearable tang.

I love the texture of your hair because I am familiar with it,

I love the texture of your hair because I can ragefully throw it into the shallow depths of the Baltic Sea and not say goodbye,

I love the texture of your hair because I am unable to love my own.