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?

bY bRI wATTS