I'm in my prime.

I swapped my firm and tight-fit skin

for confidence and knowledge

that within this ageing frame

lies a body of experience,

a warrior of thought

who brings her wisdom to the table,

leaves her ego at the door,

and won't descend to bitter ends.

I'm not exactly Miss Jean Brodie.

 

I'm in my prime

and looking back at how it felt

to live within that seamless pelt,                                                                    

behind the eyes of yesterday;

unsure, unscathed, and insecure,

prey for wanton predators

with mealy-mouthed hypocrisy

and practised double standards,

belching semen-tinted nonsense

and sullying equality with privilege unearned.

 

I'm in my prime

and do I wish to have that time again?

Well, I kinda miss the face

I thought would always look that way,

and the diamonds lost

in breath of men blind to prisms within.

But I don't miss raw, I don't miss bruised,

I don't miss fucked-up and confused,

endlessly explaining why I thought we were just friends

and being taken anyway.

 

I'm in my prime

and though the drops of poison drip

from lips unused to lowliness,

tarnishing a time of life

their mothers and their daughters

and their sisters, wives, and girlfriends journey,

demonising "dried up bitches",

"mutton dressed as lamb",

I piss on that audacity and poverty of thought.

I'll never be exactly Miss Jean Brodie.