Aesthetica

by Allie Rowbottom

I wasn’t a virgin. I already knew things. Womanly things, like love is overrated and pleasure is a right.

My bush was stripped bare, anyway, barely recovered from the raw aftermath of my first wax, first act of self-care, self-directed violence.

I would have to return. Home to where coupons were clipped and portions were weighed, for the sake of waistlines and wallets.

Drugs erase time, age, mistakes; drugs don’t work the way they used to. But they’re better than nothing, the closest thing I’ve got now to what Instagram once promised.

“I used to only care about animals,” she said. “But then I realized women are endangered too. The world is so fucked.”

But she isn’t coming back. It’s up to me to look upon myself the way I imagine she would: with love. Maybe that’s the wisest approach to the life left for me to move through, age into. It’s a privilege, to age, I see that now.