by Emily Perkovich

Something about the place on the shower wall where your hair sticks. Stomach spins. I’ve heard some people (like) to play with wet hair. Nausea. Confusion. Disgust. 

 

And I remember once, I stayed in your dorm room. And she stayed too. And I slept on the couch. Fucking (fuck-ing) roommate cum stains. Or spilt salt-water? Unsure. But, here’s to hoping. And when I say slept. What I mean is. I stayed at your dorm. But she stayed. And I covered my face with some dirty, dingy  pillow. And soft, green/blue/maybe orange? bullshit, half-dead, alley-way light poured in from inner-city, barred, second-floor windows. But I didn’t sleep. Because she stayed. So instead. I listened to the fucking boat rock on the fuck-stain, threadbare couch. And every now and then she’d breathe hard. And the knocking would stop. And then laughter. And oh, by the way. Did I mention your roommate burnt soup a few hours before. And some perv with a crush slept on the floor next to my worn-down, plush grave of bodily fluids. Black-light sensitive. The whole fucking (fuck-ing) room. And perv laid, eyes wide open, hand down pants. And she panted. And the bed/boat knocked/rocked. And we both listened. Me, ceiling staring. Him, bug-eyed, me staring. And I wish there was a goddamn fan in that room. And I wish there wasn’t her hair on the shower wall.