sometimes I don’t wash my hair
only read Bukowski in bed.
you should shower, you sneered
your lips avoiding the top of my head.
as if there’s anything more than
the last of the rum,
my weeping uterine lining,
that stupid somber song you hum.
girl, hate those dirty black hands
how you smear ink on the sheets.
oh and I hate erasures like
I hate typos and models and cheats
and all the polished perfection
just out of my reach.
be pretty or dye trying
that’s all they ever preach.
dirty scalp, tresses like uncut lawn
the mirror keeps cracking
but it won’t break til you’re gone.
(no I won’t break til you’re gone.)
and oh well, its just as well
I’m not the kinda girl you’d take home,
tear-stained and booze-scented,
laughing while you whisper, “ohm”.
oh and I know the sound you make
when you find my hair clogging the drain,
stuck to your stubble, a ghost you can’t shake.
and sometimes I don’t know what to seek
or how to pull up my calloused skin
to let you take a peek.
27 wadded papers line my floor
you hate the mess
but you’re not there anymore.
so sometimes I don’t wash my hair.
I can’t pretend to care.
—By Alaska Jones