I have hair on my legs, under my arms, and on my crotch,
But I do not consider it to be any different than the hair on my head.
But, when my boyfriend gently caresses my shin, I cringe,
Hoping the sprouting creatures on my legs don’t make me
Any less of a woman.
A remnant of a bygone era,
Razors were marketed to women to increase sales,
With words like “dirty” and “unkempt” used to describe what every human being possessed,
Yet only on a woman’s body is it not allowed.
And so, despite the growth on my boyfriend’s head,
I feel the divide between us like the nick of a razor,
And while every one of my hairs gets longer,
I grow smaller,
Shrinking into myself until I become nothing but a bundle of follicles,
A form that writhes under dark, black fur,
A beast who threw out her razors months ago.
And yet, what I see in my boyfriend’s beard is the struggle of thousands
Locked into Jewish curls
And the rapid maturation of a man who has been a man
Far longer than he should’ve been.
Every strand tells the story of a being,
Every moment spent indisputably alive.
In it, the form is complete.