A Hairy Sister's Blues


I've got two miniature Chewbaccas under my arms.

Sometimes I shave them,

Most times I don't

And somehow lifting my arms is a social suicide

I could even have Veet on speed dail and it won't save me.

It's as if femininity is my enemy

But really fear is.

Fear of having analyzing eyes say my etsrogen is below muliebrity

Fear of having respect to live for myself and not for the public's eyes.

It's just people aren't drawings that you can erase and modify.

We're statues

And should no longer hid our bodies in censorship.

That's why I should let Nair run out of business because I wore a skirt and showed my bear legs.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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