I look like

the inside of a cactus

exposed by

your restless fingers

tearing through

the anxiety

of spines

I look like

the space under your eyelid

wrapped up in veins

blood bursting

from unfinished seams

forgotten in the rush

to move on to better things

Who do I look like? Where to begin?

Well okay, I am creeping towards my mid sixties so don't expect a description of a chiselled and broad shouldered stud with a square chin, teeth like they were sculptured by Michelangelo, and eyes like pools of lustre.

I was trawling through some of the tosh on Facebook just yesterday, and my eyes fell upon one of those pages visited by really ancient people, the sort of people whose birth certificates are written in Latin, and being of an age were such discussions have an appeal I waded in with a comment. They were talking about stuff that only old people talk about; hip operations and how young policeman are, that sort of thing.

One dear old woman complained that she felt undervalued and useless, that set me off like a firework, albeit a damp one, and I quickly told her not to be so self deprecating, further I told her that I myself was sixty three and was still working full time and paying my taxes.

Seconds later my comment was replied with a sharp rebuke; Sir, you are not old yet!!!

I exited Facebook vowing never again to enter into other folks discussions.

Who do I look like? Well I think total honesty should prevail here so I want you to picture Kirk Douglas, now, put a slight stoop on him, make his face dimpled all over, and give him roughly another two hundred wrinkles. Now, give him plastic spectacles, a pocketful of medications, and a slight limp.

That's about me. And stop laughing!

According to someone like you,

My eyes are brown like fresh soil,

And my hair is wavy, falling on my shoulders like a cape of chocolate that fades into Barbie blonde at the ends.

I have lips the color of cotton candy dum-dums, long legs and a smile/smirk hybrid that's actually quite hard to read if you don't know me.

According to me,

I have bags under my eyes that no makeup can cover,

And I hate the way my hair looks in an updo so I wear it down all the time.

I'm probably deep in thought but I have RBF syndrome so I'm sure I come off as angry to everyone else.

I never leave the house without societal expectations caked on because I feel secure behind a mask, and let me assure you that my eyeliner is as sharp as my tongue.

And according to the rest of the world, I'm just someone they'll forget.

In an ordinary person's perspective, they'd see me as a girl with green eyes that shine like emeralds. They'd see my blonde hair spilling down my back, growing on memories of love. An ordinary person wilhsee my pale skin and red lipstick. They'd smile at my freckles brighter than anyone before. These "ordinary" people are my friends.