Hair My grief washes over me while hot water and soap attempt to rid my skin of the rancid smell of cancer. I’ll let it run through me. I’ll close my eyes and listen to nothing while my heart beats madly to no ones song. My skin is pale and loose over bony ribs and paper thin finger nails scratch away at accumulated filth – but it's never quite gone. The bath I stand in is filled with soapy water and my dark hair, having suddenly given in - let go of its roots and succumbed to the madness of this disease.
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