Several sleeps later, I’m still a pile of pain. I haven’t seen a bra in days. My eyes are green-spotted eggs. Under its gray glue, my scar shines through: angry maroon.
Still, you reach toward me in the restless, aching morning. And, coming to my side of the bed like you are asking me to the season’s hottest event, you say: “come on, let’s go look at your hair.”