Wednesday, May 20, 2015

I'm Waiting for my Face to Fall Apart


I'm waiting for my face to fall apart.


For my fragile skin to slide right off of my cheekbones.
For the fine lines.
The wrinkles.
The crow's feet.
All the things I'm supposed to dread.


In the mirror, I don't see me
I see a face anticipating disintegration.
Expecting decline.
Dreading decay.


Because I've been taught to fear the long descent.
To worry about the passing of time.
Each new day
is just one step closer 

to the worst thing a woman can possibly be: 
old.


Old  
to no longer be available for the world's consumption of beauty.

Old 
to be used up.

Old
to be closed for business.

Old
to stop paying my rent in this world for occupying a space marked "female."



And the more I think about it, 
the better it sounds.








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