How long must I pluck this stubble when I know it will again sprout hair?
How many times do I rub in this bleaching cream to become fair?
This turmeric I am using as talc burns, the lemons wait their turn.
The milk I cannot drink ferments on my skin unlearns.
Those dots akin to strawberry spots are beds of pain when the follicles that rest here are pulled against their grain.
These lanes look like the freckles that speckle the bridge of noses, split by the hands of Moses.
Against which I dab the water of roses.
In hopes, they will go away but instead, they are here to stay.
And that’s okay.