Grime

August 2018

Published: Judy’s Punch, The Punk Edition

I need to wash my hair.
The oil has clogged the pores on my scalp,
itching matted knots on knots,
grease paint slick along my fingertips.
I need to wash my hair
but part of this feels like rebellion.

    No
    I don't want
    your calls in my ears/

           hand on my ass/

                   eyes on my body-
    how does it feel
    to believe so strongly in the power of your being
    you ignore the resistance in mine?
    To claim space so confidently
    even the oxygen in my lungs belongs to you?
                                                            (am I defined by what I am not?)

The dishes aren't done;
they teeter on the edges of

one another, stacked like rotten teeth 
marinating in their own grime.
I'm running out of cutlery

and I can feel the filth like it were on my own skin
and none of this sounds like rebellion.

    Who told you

    that just because it happens in the dark

    you’re allowed to act like you can’t be seen?
    I'm drunk
    but I could never be drunk enough
    to think your fingers-palm-chest-breath belong
    here
    on me
                                                              (I'm really good at looking afraid;
                                                            I've had a lot of practice)

The carpet is dirty
but the sound of the vacuum makes my teeth grind
so hard I think they're about to shatter.
I'm sitting on the corner of the sofa
with my heart bleeding through my skin
(piercing through, needles and salt)
and I wish
I could start
a rebellion.