Act I. Scene I. My hair gets damp from sleeping next to you. The oils creep from my scalp to my ends and it gives my hair that tentacle feel. My slimey strands shine as if dipped in a lake on a warm day. They slap my cheeks, adding dirt on top of make-up.

Act I. Scene II. My make-up won't stay on for more than an hour. Any application goes unnoticed, my natural illumination shining through. My pores suck up the matte powder and my rosy cheeks blur through the opaque pigments. Warm olive, is what my skin is labeled.

Act I Scene III. My skin is so dirty it's darker. I've become tan just by avoiding water and soap. I've got virgin skin underneath my favorite rings, and pale, soft, flesh under my panties.

Act I. Scene IV. A wiff of my skin and it just smells human. I've got that warm body scent. The organic perfume with pheromones that attract men. Morticians dream of smelling skin like mine.

Act I. Scene V. We've been to bed four times since my last shower, so I've got that glow that pregnant women have. Satisfied women get it too. My face gains color to it, my lips glow so unhumanely pink they are red. Boutique stores can't sell this red.

Act I. Scene VI. These jeans have been worn since the last bath. The threads have lost so much color they've gone from black to gray. The kind of gray in old movies: the unlively kind. The threads have stretched and formed to my body exactly. My clothes have formed so perfectly I've come to consider whether they are attached or not.

Act I. Scene VII. The shower's dry. No bubbles on the soap, and no beads of water on the tiles. The shampoo and conditioner couple have gone unused for days. The shower curtain is as stiff as cardboard. The water runs cold the first five minutes. How inviting.