Trepanning Shane Vaughan
She takes the blade to my scalp and lopes off a thick bundle of hair, wincing, as each strand falls like off-yellow worms against the carpet swamp, then scrapes at the roots with rough edge until a patch forms, my tonsurette, and she can cut deep lines, crevices, an untidy hole, until the floor is covered in red and blond, little worms swimming in drunkenness. And we wait.‘ til memories come and she scoops them with closed palms like a child to water until thirsty no more, drops them to the floor where they puddle and we can pull on our boots, hers blue mine red, and splash like I’ ve forgotten how, sing a song about rain like it’ s the first time I’ ve heard the lyrics. Until later, when we curl up in bed and I bleed all over her,‘ til a crust comes to form a scab, to be picked by someone else’ s nails.
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