I hate growing older.
I do not enjoy upper arms sagging,
swaying when I wave goodbyes.
I hate viewing the once perky bust-line
now gazing despondently at the ground.
Why did I have to become old, my once willowy
body relaxing far more than necessary.
I try to ignore it, to picture myself in my mind
the way I want to be, wish to be, dream to be,
but knowing the reality deep inside.
If I ignore mirrors, reflective windows,
I can carry on the image within my head,
avoid the truth that sometimes slaps me in the face.
That glimpse can be a shock, send tremors
skulking down my spine, chill my soul,
paralyze my psyche, and bring tears to my eyes.
I remark that I am a twenty-three-year-old
trapped in this sixty-five-year-old body,
craving to caress life in a spirited way.