Skin Deep

I do not like the skin I’m in - It’s dotted, dry and wrinkled, Like paper with a reject poem - Once smooth, now sadly crinkled. Each little tap becomes a bruise, A purple blotch, attesting To all the years I’ve spent on earth, A dermal-type divesting. Some freckles, not here yesterday, Have multiplied and scattered. They would have bothered me much more When my appearance mattered. What troubles me some others might Find trite and almost risible. I should let go, for at my age, To others I’m invisible.