She does

She does, does, does. She dances in circles,
around his unpredictability, his platitudes,
his drinking and his drama, his constant
lack of accountability. She spins and swirls,
her body gyrating to the rhythm of the beat,
trying to stop the fluttering of her heart,
pins and needles in her head, the song
on the radio taunting her, “should I stay or
should I go?”  She tastes the strands of her hair,
feels the sweat burning her lips, tingling in her toes
and she looks in the mirror. The reflection looks familiar,
but it’s not her, it’s him.


Dear Box Hair Color,

You make it easy to access the fountain of youth.
You never let me down. You’re not a liar like those other boxes,
“no more fine lines’ or “no more brown spots.”
As promised, you cover those greys that pop up like aliens,
trying to infiltrate my luscious brown locks and
transport me to Planet Aging on their silver spaceship.
They think they can win by gathering forces at the root,
but they are no match for the secret elixir
and never make it past the crown.