by Jo Fisher
My tummy may not be quite taut,
my legs may not be lengthy;
My hair is going rather grey,
for someone in their twenties.
The little rolls above my bum
jut out above my jeans;
you can’t quite see my Venus dimples
like you could back in my teens.
My ribcage and my hipbones
are strategically secured
beneath a few soft layers
that appeared as I matured.
My arse is somewhat dimpled
and doesn’t stick right out,
thanks to hours sat down, writing
eating chocolate and takeout.
But, as I pore over pictures
in glossy, rotten pages
and scroll through good old Insta
for, quite frankly, ages,
I grab my fat, I prod my tum,
feel the rubbing of my thighs,
and am proud that what I offer
Does not deceive the eyes.
My age has given me a gift:
accepting who I am.
I’m having more good days than not;
when I don’t give a damn.
Jo Fisher | @jo_fisher_ | @joannefisher | jofisherwrites.com