my hair calls herself an artist

my hair still mangles herself into your face on freckled tile, did you know?

i watch, shivering and wrapped in my shower curtain. / i watch till it’s time for me to take you and your smirk to the sink, / your eyes sticking to my fingers without fail. / my fingers, your eyes, your mouth, / they shake jointly / while i drown them on porcelain and let the drain choke on their skeletons. / i’ve come to think of it as an art. / the drowning of you, i mean. /

my fingers crumple and pull and wrench and hinge and scratch / at black strands twisting into a counterfeit print of your breath / i wipe it all away with my palms / (your breathing, though fake, was fogging up my mirror) / and your mouth curls to the beat of my hair rearranging herself on the inside of my wrist. /

your nose always sprawls on the tile longest, / and i would laugh at the sight of it if my lips weren’t pressed so tight together. / they don’t like the taste of salt, you see. /

last week i started drowning you with my teeth. / it’s easier this way. / i believe i’ve mastered the art, / and i rather think the taste of salt is growing on me. / now, my hair splits in the gaps of my teeth / as i rip it away with a vengeance. / you, darling, won’t ever have to hear it. /