My Hair
Barely a month goes by,
Where I'm not here,
Chest pressed against stained wood panels.
Neck bent, mock swan,
Over the cold, off white, plastic rim.
There is a chemical sting,
In the corners of my eyes,
And in my nose.
Before me is a blurred film of colour,
And it's weeping.
Sometimes sunlight,
Sometimes blood,
Today, darkness.
Dark pools of the future,
Swirl in the bottom of the bath,
Before dribbling nonchalantly down the drain.
Today is easy.
Today is black.
Copyright © Gracie Bawden | Year Posted 2011
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