Ingrown Hairs

Don’t you hate the smudge

on the top left corner

of your closet mirror?

The smudge infects you

insinuating the very

thing you were afraid of.

I can feel the smudge

of his fingertips

brushing over the baby hairs

on my arms.

Don’t you hate the tear

in your favorite ripped jeans?

Sometimes don’t you wish

they were whole?

I wish ingrown hairs didn’t make crying so hard.

I wish red wine made sleeping hard.

I wish my hands didn’t make living so hard

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