Washing my hair. Not doing the laundry

The bed cannot be made. The cat is warm on my sheets. He dreams of running and of my voice (I am sure.) Disturbing his sleep would invoke the wrath of the angels themselves; the downpour is incessant enough. So is the crying. The pinkness of my nose against the washed-out sky.

The red dye clings to the baby-hairs that sprout at my scalp. Stubborn florets. It washes me wine-red and tipsy. It invades the space where they meet—my nose and my throat—just like a bottle does at the pop of a cork. Did you see my nails? A sheer red on the first coat—a beetroot cut open, and on the second—blood, pooling and spilling into cuticles. Chipping from the shampoo I kneaded into my hair. Flakes of nail polish. Stranded.

You are the apple by Lady Lamb plays. And plays again. I tuck a love letter into a teabag and glue it shut. I keep my heart on the shelf by the mirror. It needs to be reminded of itself. It’s self-indulgent, the way I watch it and misunderstand its every beat. It wants teeth in it. To come away from something, bitten.

The rain drowns me out. Down to my roots in it, the smell of red earth and ammonia. It hammers all around, cuts me off from everyone. I’d like to be soaked in it, je veux être trempé. Dipped in, jagged-edged biscuit.

I watch Twin Peaks late into the night. I put my heart back before bed. The cat will not settle at my feet until dawn breaks. He will watch my dreams and wait for the intervals between them. My hair falls in a sheet across the pillow, careful and clean, to dry. For a drizzle or a shower, whatever comes next.