I tell the young pharmacist. I’m not yet 40.
My scalp’s white shines under thin bangs.
While waiting on my prescriptions I cry
cry for my hair, all that’s lost to this disease.
It’s pretty. It isn’t that bad, he says.
Watching us, a thin scab-covered meth addict and her
boyfriend, him digging his pockets for change
to pay for pain pills. Surely, she
resides in Hell. Not me.
I hate her dirty toes, worn flip-flops, dry skin,
insect-stick thin legs dotted in red scabs, scars.
She shoots up or snorts or smokes herself
while my disease comes like a thief in the night.
I glare, my chin wet with tears.
But her eyes grow large with pity for me—for me.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she says, “about your hair.”
Andrea Fekete was born and raised in southern West Virginia. She has one published novel, one published chapbook, but not…
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