Her name is bandana and she has been worn by many. Without the d many would slip on the spit of her peel. She never lasts long enough to brown. Sometimes she wishes people would just leave her alone. Browned bananas make the best bread. Soul-filled. Juicy bites.

Even after 3 rounds of windex and wipes the medicine cabinet is still smudged. The shower still reeks.

Stained underwear (a black cotton thong from JCPenney lies on the linoleum. Crusted with cum.

On the bathroom counter matching galaxy earrings are scattered and one’s back is missing. 

Her body is one strangers and acquaintances alike poke their heads into daily, like feet into boots too small to consent to fungal toes. Bandanas catch the sweat of others.

She never said it aloud but she always wanted to be a headscarf — silky and escaped. Flowing freely.

The chiffon dress would never be crumpled on the carpet floor normally. A hanger is missing.


Hold the scar tissue of lobal diffusion. My lobes are hard from five silver piercings. But my ears have been penetrated fewer times than Bandana just this week. Ten times. Nine different men. No consent. No mistake.


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