Another draft that I'm letting be good enough. Like many people last year, I did a lot of learning to sit with myself during lockdown. And honestly, I don't have the energy to be self-conscious any more, even about things I've always been told to especially avoid as a woman. So here's the result of my internal process.
On Being Hairy
To feel like a peach,
with its velvet skin and smooth curve,
a slight blush on the arc and a gentle
give when pressed, could not be
such a bad thing.
But the fuzz on my
upper lip, the few hairs
that prickle--should those get to stay?
And that cluster on my chin and the rogues
between my eyebrows and that silly
one that always regrows on my throat.
Those wisps of baby hair at the nape
of my neck, the ones eternally too
short to stay in ponytails but too long to pin up.
The shading on my forearms
or that soft warm ever-spreading
patch between my legs. A
coarse pattern down to my ankles.
The hairs on the segments of my fingers
between each knuckle of my hands, and
on the tops of my toes--.
Is it all good enough reason to be
uncomfortable in this one body I have?
