I never liked shaving,
a blade in my hand,
scraping across body hair
that never asked to be gone.
They called it *****
so I was *****
I carved at my skin,
slicing away
the girl they wanted me to be.
The girl I was told to become.
Now my armpits are hairy,
the razor’s long dead,
rotting in its plastic grave.
And me?
I don’t care anymore.
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 2:18 AM UTC
I never liked shaving,
a blade in my hand,
scraping across body hair
that never asked to be gone.
They called it *****
so I was *****
I carved at my skin,
slicing away
the girl they wanted me to be.
The girl I was told to become.
Now my armpits are hairy,
the razor’s long dead,
rotting in its plastic grave.
And me?
I don’t care anymore.
I think this feels more like a statement than a poem. I just don’t know what I am stating.
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