Dirty Hair
- For Bella

The peach pit of my scalp
scratches, black nails, untrimmed,

another depression nap, another
fracture, crack, snap

tap of the noggin; frank as the musical, classic
film playing softly in the

background of my darkening glow,

let it go

or just, let it be

another two days spent wayward, as sour
as a starburst, worrying that

to be happy feels like a crime, so time
must sandwich itself against my

wrists, this scar on my hand, pulsates,
reminds me,

like a broken record, a broken bone
of my anger, twitching

drunkenly like a heartbeat from before
when movement

evaporated into lovely words like
the drawing of a curtain

across the dusk of window glass,
like a hand, resting so comfortingly

and lazily in mine.

The mirror is a fucking bitch, her glare
as stinging as morning breath, as

incontinent as the infection, those
antibiotics did nothing,

the doctor did nothing, brushed off
those concerns from my lips

like dust from the tip of a book, like
filth from the underside of a tongue.

I suppose I rose, sometime in the night,
to urinate; I suppose my back

was bare once, when you touched me.

I suppose I went back to bed, supposing
the sun rises fractural like

cubism, the changing of the seasons
as foreign to me as waking is to

dreams.