War Zone

My body is a war zone. Sickly red poppies bloom along the expanse of my thighs, ocean waves rolling against the cellulite I was taught to hate, to sail away from as people tell me to keep my ships of self love anchored. The rolls of my stomach lap over each other like prisoners contained…

Hairy, Angry Feminist: Why I Put Down My Razor

As of October last year, I stopped shaving my armpits. Of course, I’d heard of other feminists doing it, and thought it was pretty damn awesome. Yet, I never mustered up the strength to throw out my disposable razors and go “au naturale.” Oddly enough, I hadn’t shaved my legs consistently for about a year…