Day 28
Day 28
The boy cutting my hair talks of the weather and
my fine hair, in the sense of slim.or slender, not wonderful.
This weather is the mischief, eh?
There's a picture of a model, hair like glass
The back of my neck aches, pressed against the sink
The mirror reflects gossip, echoes answers
With my hair wet on my scalp
my skull is the same shape as Nefertiti's
My face hangs in its frame, a kind of art
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