deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Random Things I Think About {exhibit A}

I always take care
to be gentle,
so not to pull
your already
fading hair.
So not to burn
your soft, thin
skin.
So not to rap
your head with
the hard plastic dryer.

Typically you look
peaceful,
with an occasional mix
of ever-so-slight
irritation.
I roll the brush around,
focused and
contemplative;
wondering sometimes
if you remember.

I think of the silent
scream that rose
in my chest, stopped
short at my throat.
The pain of hair
yanked at the root.
The hairbrush
raked across the scalp.
The hard plastic
dryer, cracking me
on the head.
Your impatient swipes,
eager to be done—

...eager for me to
be off to bed
and out of
your hair.

I carefully pull your
thin tresses
through the brush,
making waves or
something that gives
some illusion of
volume.
Teasing the roots
with quiet
aggression.

You step back, mirror
in hand, and inspect
the back.
No holes. Good height.
(I wonder
how many people
you think are
staring at the back
of your head)
You flick a couple
pieces of
hair around
your forehead and
close your eyes.
A thick, sticky
mist coats
the final finish
and you step
into your
closet to dress.

I leave the room
satisfied.
I hold the golden
trophy.
The prize for
knowing
that I have not
become you.
Eerie
Written by Eerie
Published
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