I’ve got no pressing reason
to open my head,

so there’s no reason for you
to stand there staring at my hair,

wondering when I’ll pick it up
and let you see

the swirl of waste oil
on the surface of the pool within,

let you peer at the discarded items
visible on the bottom,

let you think about the sudden stink
in the air. 

Truth is,
I’ve done enough of that

for a while.  It hurts
like a mother, and I suspect

that what seems necessary to me
might only be entertainment to you.

Instead,
I think next I’ll lift a few foreign scalps

and see what’s in there — so don’t stand
too close.  No telling what I might do

with such tempting locks before me
waiting to be examined.  I don’t know

what trash I might find beneath them, and while
I’m disgusted with the possibility,

I know I will learn something
that might be useful, might learn why you stare at me

so deeply, so coldly.  I may learn
how to be wary of you at last.