Flesh Wounds
The mirror reflects a lifetime etched upon my skin; a canvas of stories whispered through maturity. I stand before it, middle-aged and exposed, my nakedness laid bare. My image holds no judgment, only truth—an unyielding witness to my existence.
I have been heavy my entire adult life—bearing the weight of years of laughter and tears interwoven. My flesh bending beyond societal norms. It is not a battle lost, but a protective shield. My body, a vessel for survival, knows no shame. It wears its scars like badges of honor.
My breasts, once buoyant, now surrender to gravity’s pull. They droop, pendulous with memories of nurturing, passion, and life. Their imperfections track the journey—a roadmap imprinted with creases, a testament to resilience.
Flabby layers drape over my bones, a cloak of vulnerability. It tells tales of growth spurts, of pregnancies, of seasons when I blossomed and wilted. Each fold whispers secrets—the stretch marks, like ancient runes, spell out durability.
Pale and fragile, my outer shell cradles veins like delicate rivers. It remembers sun-kissed days and moonlit nights. I trace the constellations of age spots—the freckles dance across my arms and chest—a celestial map of existence.
Cellulite, those dimples of distortion, decorate my thighs. They are the echoes of summers spent by the water, of giggles shared with friends. I embrace them—their texture is a reminder that beauty transcends smooth surfaces.
Faint peach fuzz adorns my shape—a gentle halo of security. It catches the light, a shimmering veil that conceals and reveals. I imagine it as stardust, woven into my being, connecting me to the cosmos.
Double chins frame my face, a portrait of self-acceptance. They support my hidden dreams and my silent prayers. In their softness, I find solace—a cushion against living’s harsh edges.
Thinning, shoulder-length hair—dyed black to defy time—falls like a midnight curtain. It carries souvenirs of rebellious streaks, of moments when I dared to be bold. Its strands weave scenarios of transformation.
So, I stand before the glass, my nudity a manifesto. I see no flaws but a symphony—a composition of sensitivity, vigor, and grace. And as I meet my gaze, I purr, “This body, this vessel, is mine—a masterpiece in progress.”
And the mirror, unwavering, reflects my truth—a middle-aged warrior, adorned in the armor of self-love and acceptance—finally.
Copyright ©
Courtney Hubbert
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