She snorted as she ran her fingers through my sticky curls
I continuously sobbed,
“I’m sorry.”
She braided my hair,
her eyes squinting like a cat’s as she took in my pathetically drunken state.
She’s like mom.
She raked a comb through my hair, the bristles stretching my now coconut scented curls as she soothed my scalp with her hands.
I hate how morbidly sarcastic she can be.
She giggled drunkenly.
The water had seeped onto my bare skin and drenched my sports bra,
but wasn’t nearly as bad as her t-shirt that turned a dark grey after hunching over the tub to wash the vomit from my hair.