I didn’t know how much hair would impact me when I was growing up.
The presence of it or lack thereof.
Hair in itself is a statement. Been feeling weird about my armpits.
I used to fall asleep in my bathtub all the time.
Seconds away from drowning on whatever phone call.
But not really, not seriously, ever. I always knew, even then, somewhere deep down.
I look back on all my laughable close calls.
Too silly to be serious, a sweaty wipe from the forehead.
Maybe I’ll die really seriously.
I don’t know if I’m a serious person.
When I have an interesting night I wipe out my tub with comet cleanser and fill my tub with hot, hot water.
I type on my phone with many typos and think about aging with my eyes adverted
And the concept of beauty overall
I feel glazed, I feel produced.
I remember when I used to fall asleep in the bathtub.
And I remember when I used to take baths multiple times a day, soaking in epsom salt like a mummy, simulating the desire of highness without knowing how it felt in the first place: not much better.
I used to take a bath every day at 6am in 6th grade. I saw Harriet Tubman on the ceiling, scar across her face.
I have been wanting comfort so long I think I’m bored of it and I’m ashamed of what Harriet would think about that in the grand scheme of my life.
Some people willing to drive hours away just because they were afraid I fell asleep
I don’t think I really care. I’m worried about being watched even though I guess thats all I ever wanted. Haven’t posted in a while.
If there was a knock on my door right now it won’t matter.
I’m soaking.
Leave a Reply