by Linda McCauley Freeman

You say I am no longer lovely,
stab my heart against the time

I was. My beauty my throne.
No one could touch me.

I was glass. You saw curve
and grace, and now reflect

another face. The years have
cast their evil spell, drawn

creases and lines where once
was well. I can choose to

believe you, cower, see
only the lateness of the hour,

the passing of my younger self.
But what if there is more

than the face I see? The one you
show? Perhaps a me to get to know?

You reflect what you want. But
my face so cruelly altered, is to be

exalted. Not for how it looks to you,
but how far it has taken me.


Photo by Sarah Penney on Unsplash