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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