Mint Breath
Mostly, always, right.
I wrote my best work in the depths of a dark mind, I've noticed that the back of my head is flat, There are strands of random, coarse, hair on the case of my pillow, And a permanent indent, even when I flip it over, My hair is in knots, The dark-brown dye has washed out, Streaks of green, from a previous blue, are shining throughShould I just cut it all off? Everyone else thought I looked prettier with long hair, And I know that I do, You probably thought it too, A princess always has long hair. Do you still remember how I'd always tell you that my hair is ruined, I was desperate to dye it, cut it or straighten it, But you'd always tell me that I would regret it, That I should wait until tomorrowTo see if I still felt the same way, And you were mostly, always, right. I'd tell you so'that's what you always say' I never liked that you were mostly right, I wrote my best work in stained, grey, joggersI wrote my best work when I hardly knew what day it was, I still mistake Thursdays for Tuesdays,I brush my teeth four times a day, Each time I convince myself that I'm getting ready to head out,At the thought of strangers outsideI never end up leaving my bedroom. I'm at my best when my breakfast consists of three scrammbled eggs, One or two green apples, Stale sweets from that random jar in the kitchen, And a mug or three of coffee, There's never anything to eat in the fridge, Except one half slice of Edam, but no loaf of bread on the counter, A cardboard milk carton that is puffy, And left-over rice I cooked last week. I have to wonder whether they'll know, If I go to the grocery store, Will the married couple browsing the same isle notice the knots in my hair? Or the worn-out clothes, They'll see the scars on my forehead, And they'll know I'm unkempt, Dirty. Depressed. The cashier will notice the dirt under my fingernails When I reach out to pay,Am I holding up the queue?