On authenticity and artifice
A short poem about facial hair and being my “authentic self”.
This morning I was standing in front of my makeup mirror plucking hairs from my upper lip
Thinking about what it means to be my “authentic” self
To “live my (so-called) truth”
I’ve always been me, always been this way, but authenticity isn’t just for me anymore
It’s for you
It’s introducing you to the me that only I’ve known
And in the process learning who I might be
The me that was hiding beneath the skin
Who have I been, and who might I become?
I tweezed too enthusiastically last night before bed
and now there’s a patch of raw skin that bleeds as I obsessively try to get those little hairs
Those little barbs that betray me
My body asserting a residual self
Home grown artifice
Beneath my skin
I will have to wait a day or two before it’s grown out enough
to be plucked.
