I am such an ugly fuck up.
Embarrassed to look in the mirror.
Previously broken nose,
A drunken escapade.
Ugly face unable to smile.
Crooked stained teeth.
Awful coarse short hair.
The ravages of forty years of life.
Contrasted with the acne of a teen.
What the fuck is that about?
I have had since I walked at 22 months.
Late because of my fucked up leg.
Fuck you all.
I can hear people laughing.
What’s the fuck is wrong with you?
A homeless person called after me about my leg last week.
I fucking bawled him out of it.
Pointedly shouting at him
“Fuck you” over and over.
Classy Ingrid. Classy.
I pretend to be cool.
Cool about my faults.
Real or self-perceived.
I am not.
I am sensitive.
I believe this is part of the reason.
The reason I was class clown.
Always a front.
Don’t let anyone see.
Don’t look behind the curtain.
I can dress up.
I can look somewhat nice.
And then comes the end of the evening.
And I am back to me.
And the pain sets in.
The once cute pajamas.
Now roll beneath my bulging stomach.
The tank top riding up.
My now large underwear.
The small and medium in a heap in a drawer.
The watering eyes as I look in the mirror brushing my teeth.
More as I spy myself in the full-length in the bedroom.
I try not to look.
My eyes don’t listen.
I have never accepted my appearance.
When my weight was lower.
When I wore cute clothes.
When men hit on me.
That was easier.
But I still caught sight of my leg in glass doors.
I still saw the bulge of my upper thighs.
I explained it by my bones being along my outer thighs.
I have no idea if that’s the case.
My left leg is more bowed than my right.
Why are both of my thighs misshapen?
I am forty years old.
Will I somehow lose this weight?
I am still on the meds that put it on.
It is unlikely I will lose much.
Even if I do…
I am only getting older.
As life goes.
My wrinkles will increase.
My age spots and new freckles too.
Each day the youthful look recedes farther into the past.
Never to be reclaimed.
I feel like I have been robbed of my last few years of youth.
And so I am.
The onward march of time.
The breaking down of our bodies.
Day by day.
I have never been a vain person.
I wear casual clothes.
I don’t wear makeup.
I don’t spend hours on makeup.
I’ve never made a huge effort with men.
Generally my sense of humor has seen me through there.
So why is all this so hard?
What has changed?
The sudden weight gain?
The worsening of acne?
At the same time as signs of aging?
My depression magnifying everything?
I fold in on myself.
A child – aging.
A child – fat.
A child – lost.
A forty year old insecure, scared child.