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.