Self-Portrait
Her skin is pale, neither sickly nor porcelain,
stretched across a vessel that grows wearier each day.
The soles of her feet ache from walking endless miles
in the wake of both
good fortune and disaster.
Her arms and legs
are strong and defined,
as are the curves
that map her body.
A mess of dark, undefined waves hides her face in one moment
and frees her in the next.
Her lips, pink and full,
know all too well
the taste of tears.
Her eyes, big and blue,
have seen too much.
They are windows to a past not easily forgotten.
They reflect all the words she is unable to say.
She wears her insecurities like an old sweater;
wonders if she will ever outgrow them.
Her hands are wide open,
because she cannot hold on forever,
just waiting for someone to fill the empty space.
