He asks me to leave but I cling to his hair,
knowing quite well he does not want me there.
Sweet like malt liquor and brittle like pine —
His shampoo and conditioner smell so divine.
The mirror shows more of me than of him,
Flakiness suits me, like dry skin on a limb.
Now, comes a girl, with clean, moisturized locks…
The lack of dirty, white flakes is perplexing: he’s delightfully shocked.
If only I spoke the same language as she,
Would he believe I just care to roam free?
She picks at my nerves and crawls under his skin.
Now he wants me gone — things look rather grim.
He buys tons of products to help his dry scalp.
He washes his hair, but I keep coming back.
I’m crushed as he speaks with such hate of my name.
Yet I don’t go away. I crawl out of his skin…
He’s (my) darling.
He might not like me, and who can blame him?
Nobody does. Nobody likes me.
All that I am… is a small piece of skin.