I get up in the morning, sometimes still high from the night before, sometimes sober, sometimes wake and bake. I head into the bathroom, stand there to *** and force myself to look down at the ***** between my legs. Years and years have built up to an acceptance of my genitals from a foundation of hate.
I force myself to look myself in the face in the mirror, run my hands from ear to chin along my jaw, along the hair that represents to others a definitive flaw in my character, to myself, well, represents a certain type of shame. You see, everyone's convinced that women don't or should not grow hair in certain places.
Regardless of my status as a transgender individual, can't you see the stress this lays, the autonomy it takes from other women, too? It's like no one's ever heard of Punjabi peoples, it's like no one's ever heard the word hirsute, so the odds are higher some are inclined to shave their bodies in preparation for dresses or water fun, but I digress.
I run the water hot, it burns, I run the water on the array of razor blades and drag it gentle across the skin of the neck and down the cheeks, bottom lip and upper lip, then over both my brows. I wish I didn't have to do this, but I feel it deepest down that it will benefit me the most if I can push to survive more close calls so I may appreciate myself.
Ramble ramble.