I haven't washed my hair in days. It itches with flecks and oil, Coated with a sheen of the day, The days, rather - I forget. I have bottles in the shower, The pink one that smells of grapefruit,
Next to it, a creamy orange, Rumoured to protect from damage. Then blue and pearled white, Even hot water would do. I want to pick the scabs on my scalp, Dye the blonde red.
It has started to smell, an earthy, deep stink. As I lay there I rub my fingers through the crystalline roots, Inhale - smell myself, I am fermenting. Maybe I will wash my hair tomorrow,
I will decide when I have the time.