Sometimes I hate the oldness of me.
Where once my face was smooth
like doll plastic
and the color of a ripe peach,
I now see leathered creases
along the sagging jawline
and branches of wrinkles
around my eyes.
My hair that was once long
and shiny
and vibrant,
now hangs in short tufts
of bleached blond
that remain untamed.
My body has wilted.
Sags like a old tent.
Padded with too-soft skin
that falls in folds
and flaps
and furrows.
My kids look at me differently.
It's as if they suddenly see
how time has swept over me.
They notice the withered hands,
the corrugated belly,
the tired feet that sometimes moan.
Can't they see
that my heart is still young?
That my soul laughs...
That in my mind, I run through fields of flowers
with starlight glistening in my hair...
That my skin is tan and taut
and never tired...
That I am young and pretty
and forever fascinating...
Time has only changed the outside.
Yet,sometimes
I just hate
the oldness of me...
