My Face
I sometimes look at my face and truly don’t recognise myself.
It aged. I didn’t, but it did.
I don’t fully understand it. There’s no pain. I am not that type of woman. I am interested in it.
It is an intriguing face, like someone has come for a visit.
My face on my website, that too is mine. I don’t recognise that one either.
The face they see is not the one in me.
It may be the only one I have ever had, but it sits differently to how I remember it.
How does everyone still recognise me? Has it always been like this?
I am not at war with my face like some of my friends are. Their wars are normal for much of womanhood.
Anti-ageing is a thing, apparently. But the youth of me had little success or happiness in life, so perhaps this new face will give me what I need?
I’m not mad at this face. I will look at it a bit more, try to understand it, know it.
She isn’t so bad on any given Monday.