In the mirror

Hair, once full and glossy, now a little dull
Dyed to cover sprouting greys and fake my youth,
Tracks of time have crept across my forehead,
Worry ploughs working through the night.
The eyes begin to sag and once faint lines are clear,
Whatever makeup I wear.                                                                                        
Where did the girl go?

Breasts, once pert and bouncy, grapefruits not melons
Heading south, the droop begins.
Nipples, once rosebuds, now walnuts
No longer my pride and joy, just deflated tennis balls.
Where did the girl go?

Then comes the most hated, sagging mass,
Once small and rounded (never flat and taut)
With peachy smooth skin.
Now flabby, sagging, overstretched by two tenants.
The navel, once small and winking, is now a lazy eye
Surrounded by creases and orange peel skin,
Unsightly and ugly, no wonder the girl ran.

Wobbly thighs, the colour of raw sausage rub together
But there was never a gap.
Dry bony knees, bruised and scarred,
Sausage legs, with trickling blue veins appearing
Feet once described as pretty, now misshapen, nails thickening
And a crust of dry skin needs a sandblast now and then,
There is nothing left of the girl.

The bottom, once a ripe, full peach, has started the same journey
South for winter, with dimpled skin and saggy creases
And the hands start to change to veiny claws,
Worn down with years of toil, no doubt the arthritic gene
Will turn fingers bent and gnarled.

But still the shell aches to be filled,
The dark pink warm and wet cave needs to be touched
The body needs to be held, to feel the warmth of another.
The girl will not be back.
No one can love an ageing, sagging sack.
They all look for the girl.

Today’s post also comes with a soundtrack: : So, it’s Aerosmith – judge me as you will.