1.
There are women besides me who shave their mustache.
@amandaoleander paints a woman who is
about naked in the bathroom, with breasts like mine;
between a B and C cup,
her boobs a lighter color than her chest.
This painted woman has a stomach like mine;
hair surrounding her belly-button: vultures resting,
never attacking anything, only causing anxiety.
The last four strands of her mustache, eternal
under her right nostril. In her left hand, the blue razor
momentarily defeats her immortal hair friends.
The painting is titled, Girlstache.
Every woman I see in underwear,
doing yoga on my instagram feed have no happy trail,
no proof of irritation, no shadow of ingrown hair.
Hair ravages all of me like a field untended to.
How they keep hair off their labia, their asshole:
I wish someone would teach me. How?
2.
My eyes water with vision of my undesirability
after nairing my ass completely.
How ridiculously hilarious
it must be for God to watch a young woman curb back-shots
because her butt is no longer clear and smooth.
The melted roots of hairs I can’t pluck adequately enough
falls from my eyes as I pick ingrown hairs
that form bumps, possibly confused with disease.
How amused God must be,
witnessing a young woman deny herself her happy place
because her bikini line isn’t properly shaved in her new bikini.
and what if there are ingrowns on my wedding day
and what if i always miss a spot
and what if i didn’t see that long one under my chin
and what if i regret laser hair removal
3.
Why have I dedicated my so much
of my life setting fire to my field
when I could be planting flowers?