burgeons through my pores
bringing its small, itchy sores. Cuts
through my hands and stubbles up
enough to be visible when fitted
skin-tight to a mirror. One day,
I was standing so close you could
see each pore and I’d pluck until
every red-and-Black follicle knew
no hair was welcomed here.
Now they sprout and I’m foolish
with joy at every conjuring of
a bush. Every prick rubbing
their way through my patchy
happy face. Who will teach me
how to shave? YouTube, I guess
til my bois get this far. I wonder
if every beard grows like this: into
a nest made with oil and hope. Into
a boi made with oil after they threw
away the rope. I guess I’ll put
that in the search bar too: did it feel
good? To stop running from yourself?
The image is black and white. KB, a Black person with brown skin, looks directly at the camera. Their locs are in a ponytail/mostly hidden, and their hair is frizzy at the top. They are wearing a floral shirt, silver necklace, and sharp silver earring. They have a white wall behind them.
About the Author
KB is a Black transmasculine writer & object in the sky. They are the author of How To Identify Yourself with a Wound (Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022) and Freedom House (Deep Vellum Publishing, 2023). Follow them on Twitter and Instagram at @earthtokb.