So here we are.
Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry:
When I was two my face was round
I didn’t care at all
When I was six I barely looked
In mirrors on the wall
When I was twelve, oh holy crap
The scrutiny began
My face was wrong, my forehead flaked
The acne rose and ran
At seventeen I bleached and tweezed
My thick Italian hair
Tried tanning booths because my skin
Was pasty-chalky fair
At twenty-one, my eyebrow’s arch
Was never really right
At twenty five, my nose’s pores
Were far from toned and tight
Then thirty came, then thirty-five
A whole new hell unfurled
The tiny little lines grew large
And jowls defined my world
That little pouch beneath my chin
Would never go away
The creams and balms and serums were
A waste of take-home pay
And every day since forty
I squint closely at myself
I know I’m no spring chicken
No wide-eyed Christmas elf
But recently I figured out
A brand-new beauty dose
I should become a total bitch
So no one gets that close
Yes indeed. Welcome to me.
I'm horsey, as I'm British,ReplyDelete
and my skin was always fair,
as I always sat inside and read,
alone, in my chosen chair.
My maths class call me 'Sheldon'
because I do logarithms in my head,
but the admissions team at Oxford
won't care if my hair, or Doc Marten's, are red.
So I act like a total loner,
and wear a loner's clothes,
(Think Allison from 'The Breakfast Club',
but less shapely, and less pose).
So the girls laugh on the bus,
and some of them even hit,
but they should have learned a long, long time ago,
I just don't give a shit.
It's horrible what others do to us. It's even worse what we tend to do to ourselves.
Know this: all outer beauty fades with time, but you never age out of grace and intelligence. You have more going for you than you think, and more to look forward to than you could possibly imagine.