My Body is Old Porridge
Now that I am thirty five
On honest reflection in the mirror
Without motive I can say, my body is old porridge.
Tits. Two (statistically I’m grateful). Gloopy.
Humungous gurgling roll where stomach used to be.
A sight that brings a globule of puke hacking. Hanging. Congealing.
Arse. A moon with craters.
Men don’t want to land.
There is a nose. Pocked. Crusted. Smelling sickly smells.
Heart clogged. Lumpen.
I am overall grey.
Recycling, though commendable, impossible in this case.
There is an indescribable scent. Pungent.
Years of stewing. Steeped in whisky. Ingredients stirring.
Fingers wooden, splintered, sharp
Itching to scour away spiteful skin. Scratching yellow, blue and brown.
Vagina (I am old enough to say that now) glued together. A skin formed over. Pasted.
Virginity regained. Unwanted.
Every so often sour jam, clotted, warm. A reminder of failure.
My use and use by date passing.
Yearnings. Put a lid on.
Bingo wings shake jelly like
Only to distract from deeper thoughts.
Despairing bubble eyes. Steel scorched and scarred.
Yes. I can hide it.
Smiling tightly. A shrill escape of gas.
Put away the glass.
Of the inside out.
Rockets. Shooting, steaming, simmering, exploding. Steaming, piping, sparking
Remembering love and childhood laughter. Sweetened.
Impish ideals. Idiosyncrasies. Intelligence. Condensed.
Dreams, boundless, endless, new.
Eloquence evaporated. Afraid of escape through rotting yellow teeth.