It started with her widow’s peak.
Bev took a razor to its edge,
Made a quick swipe at her hairline,
And voila! The blunt edge of black
Looked back at her, clean and neat.
The next week, when her gold watch
Ripped out a few of the hairs on her wrist,
She considered her forearms, the
Dark follicles reminding her of fur.
Her razor swept them clean of black,
Leaving only olive skin gleaming
And smooth, like desert sand.
Little did she know that she could not undo
This cutting, and when the sharp shoots
Poked their way through her skin
Like cactus thorns, kittens’ teeth,
She vowed to shave, to pluck, to remove
These dark, itchy pieces of herself.