amazingmle11

You dream that Samson grows his hair out again. It’s coarser than your hands remember, uneven ends molded still in the shape of slave braids and scissor marks, And when it falls, easy and boneless like a white flag between the crevices of your fingers, the bloody scent of victory (of lost innocence) lingers like perfume on your wrists. (He catches you when your hands go to your own hair, shorn close to the scalp, And when he kisses you, it is kind, but not Sterile, not like antiseptic. It is not your first kiss; It does not taste like Delilah.) Samson dreams that you grow your hair out again. You dream too, for the first time Since.