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Blonde, but my roots still show,
backcombed, teased and split
like my growth, scissored and undercut.

A mascara underscore,
with mirror shades above
to shield a poker face, or

my lone-wolf grin;
jagged canines flashing —
tearing, talking, as I would be heard,

head cocked, gum-chewing;
a killer waif, unable to sleep.

Post-punk, post-drunk,
post-something,
with a little bit of personality
to hide the ruin.