For real.

Because pretending to be young is getting old.

My belly skin droops as though weighted, deflated,

Sequestered from youth by a silvery mesh.

My bosom’s surrendered to duty; its beauty

Fed out through the forces of physics on flesh.

What once was a rich crowning glory grows hoary,

Each follicle sapped of its opulent brown.

My face is a time-tattered etching; once fetching,

It now recalls every ephemeral frown.

Abdominoplasty can sever forever

My sagging, redundant, superfluous hide.

Subpectoral implants can wake up my A-cup,

Cosmetically stalling its slow earthward slide.

I needn’t despair of my tresses; hairdressers

Can colour my locks any shade I desire.

To rub out the lines of expression, a session

Of pin-pricks and lasers is all I require.

But how could I then tell my daughter she ought to

Be judged by her actions and words, not her looks?

I’d much rather spend what I’m earning on learning

And travel and music and biscuits and books.

Each stretch mark and wrinkle tells stories, each pore is

A part of my history; imperfect but true.

I find all these hallmarks of aging engaging;

Each tale of what’s old is, in other ways, new.

Special thanks go to the Digital Cuttlefish for the metre and rhyme scheme. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'VE NEVER READ THE DIGITAL CUTTLEFISH?? GO. GO NOW.