what i hold is a razor
raking her legs, where coarse hairs grew
hardened like clay; rough blades
graze smooth skin, slashing away
where water falls on
her forehead wrinkles, the fat under her arms,
the sag on her breasts, stretch marks
on her belly and scars between her thighs;
at my finger tips, the untamed
rosacea, dry flakes, the roughness on those lips
once fell so smooth
once a distant day.

count under her feet each hair fallen away:
an effortless smile, a full-face makeup;
missed gym days; postponed promotions;
cancelled concerts, unlived road trips; holidays delayed
longing parents wait; “maybe next one,” they say;
a life
with each shave,
drained away.