So much depends
on a
clean blade each
Friday.

Nothing but Words all week.
Change estrogen patch to new location on ass.
Hope it sticks so well it’ll open, mechanically,
my KP clogged pores when changed on Tuesday.
Dry shave legs to knee on the
patch that has hair still,
tap out snowflakes of dead skin onto sink counter.
Repeat on other leg.
Scrape HS scarred armpits into tiny snow mounds
that fall to my bra and countertops—
the particulate of stubble and exfoliation
into a perfect line of dirty coke or meth,
sweep into palm and dust off hands over toilet.
Stand over toilet like a deranged discolored flamingo
brandishing an aptly unironically named Dorco Tinkle razor
and create new ingrown hairs despite fresh blade.
Acquire razor burn in my trimming.
Trim aggressively the weird white public hairs. Give up.
Admire the black static of wiry short hairs
floating on the water before flushing away
any and all evidence that I am a mammal.
Does this ritual even register?
Most female genital mutilation occurs at home.
Wash hair, twice. Condition, then detangle.
Create a new skein for Clotho from my fallen hair.
Style. Re-wash from product over-application.
Condition again. Give up. Barely style.
Two pumps mousse, glaze of same 32oz bottle
salon brand gel I’ve been working on since 2018.
Try to mask now hypothyroid post-menopausal curls.
Give up. Get over it. Repeat. Does it even matter at this point?
give up. game up, games over, give up, giving up, give out.

Pixie Bruner is a writer and explorer of multiverse of selves. Owned by alien cats.