But What About My Brain?


Teacher of femininity,

unbashful was she;

saw Mother naked often enough, and

couldn’t help but admire


small breasts and


mons pubis.


She’d bought me a training brah

adorned with ah

pretty pink bow, and

my own

hedge trimmers

when I came of the age—

showed me how to shave my pits and

chicken legs.


Tweezers for the brows were

lesson next, then

brown mascara and

plum pigmented

Mary Kay to compliment

my steel blue


“It’s your eyes that will always get the guys.”

9 thoughts on “But What About My Brain?

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