Let It Be White
They ask me gently,
“Don’t you want to dye it?”
As if silver means silence,
as if white means I’ve lost the fight.
But these strands are not surrender—
they are thunder that settled.
They are ash from stars I’ve walked beneath,
and wisdom I’ve wrestled.
Every line of light upon my head
was earned through nights I didn’t flee.
They are not age.
They are evidence
that I became me.
I will not cover the truth
just to ease your view.
My white is not your flaw to fix—
it is mine.
It is true.