Drip. Drip. Drip.

I try and ignore the leaky faucet,

hold the razor with a firm grip.


Slide it against my soapy skin

to reveal what’s underneath.

If ‘beautiful woman’ is my destination,

this is where I begin.


I see a red drop running down my leg

but I remain unfazed.

I am 14; well into my journey now.

I’m used to seeing more blood on my worst days.


You see, I am not afraid,

but I am frustrated.

My time is being wasted:

trying to be hairless in unreachable places.


I couldn’t care less.

These strands don’t phase me.

Weren’t they meant

to grow with me?


‘Stop acting like a boy!’

My grandma is tired of the pants I wear.

‘You would look beautiful in a skirt, with your pretty, long hair.

Don’t just walk out the door; it’s time you care!’


Shiny legs look great,

but I don’t want to be his Venus.

Let my legs be:

dark, hairy and venous.


‘Blossom into a woman,’ they say,

‘but we choose how.

You unravel as we mould.

You do what we allow.’

Image courtesy of Vruyr Martirosyan on Unsplash

It seems that my hair has multiple identities.

Wherever she goes, she’s seen differently.


Feminine keratin on my scalp,

flirty lashes on my eyes,

mannish above my lips,

and grotesque on my thighs.


‘You’ll get used to it.

It’s daily routine.’

So could you!

I am not obscene.


They shouldn’t get to choose

which parts of me exist.

If you want me to be a woman,

accept what lies on and within.


5 years later

and I am still the same.

I still feel like a woman

and I still feel the shame.

I still can’t wear skirts

without reaching for the blade.

And I still have better things to do with my time,

so, the pants are here to stay.


Your words were my adolescence.

I was censored and edited.

It’s now time to unlearn;

embrace what I inherited.

Grow again: unlimited.

Image courtesy of Eleanor on Unsplash

Featured image courtesy of unsplash.com