I wish I had facial hair. And I could not shave for a week, and the world would know that something was amiss. The hair on my chin would scream a million words. My crinkled, two button missing shirt, my stained trousers, the stench of caffeine trailing behind me. It's a wonder how far I'd be willing to go. Only to mask the monotony of my life with the bristles of unkemptness. And won't it be beautiful then? All the stares I will invite, the hushes and shushes.

 I sit alone, forcing myself through lunch. Grasping onto a mount of rice, only to crumble each grain. I sit on the bench, trampling on the ants that scurry below me. And I lie in my bed, running the tips of my fingers, across the length of my neck, feeling desperately. Surely there is enough to give away how run down  I feel. This could take a lifetime. I'm miserable, help me. Can I paint that across my forehead? In red. And I'll do it everyday, until someone takes notice. Or till I'm no longer miserable. Whichever is to happen first.

There are planets between the person I was, and have become. Circumstances have hardened me. A beard as long as any man's, adorns the contours of my jaws, running down well into my chest. I'm pleased you think it's something to do with my religion. It always was very foreign to you, wan't it? I'm glad you find it sexy. I'm sorry it get's in the way of our kisses and for the attention it invites.

 I work my way through a sandwich I wasn't hungry for. And I feel so happy, that my lack of appetite is only the result of the heavy breakfast we shared. I smile as I think about what you had said earlier. I would give away the world, to know what you hide under the hairs of your chin, you had managed to mumble as you gobbled on pancakes and maple syrup. I'm excited to show you, I had replied.