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.
About the Author
Emily Perkovich is from the Chicago-land area. When she is not traveling for work, she spends her free time in the city with her family. She is previously published with Prometheus Dreaming, Wide Eyes Publishing, Witches N Pink, and Awakened Voices. You can read more of her work on Instagram @undermeyou