The box stares, A pretty girl, Smiling, Looks up at me, Her hair- The colour of mine. "Sangria" It reads, Permanent. Supposing to stay. My hair stained, With this colour, That- In Spanish, Sums up to "bloodletting" How quaint! You think, Not. But- think again. We let the blood, Of our true self, Altering, Staining, To fit society. To make them like us. But, Really, We only let the blood of one- Of us.