Sing a Song of Me

Maybe I'll paint my nails today.

Or go to the salon for some pampering.

Maybe I'll wear a sari today,

with silver jewelry

and line my eyes

with kohl

and laughter.

Or maybe I'll just stay in my pj's

the whole day

with clouds of perfume

dancing above my head.

I'll probably buy some chocolate

just for me

and eat it up whole --

every last smudge of it

and that too

licking off the melty bits from the

shiny foil.

Maybe it'll be Lindt.

Or Guylian.

Whichever one it is,

I'll do it guilt-free.

Perhaps I'll let the whole day slide away,

softly,

seamlessly,

from one frame to the next,

minute by minute,

second by moment,

and I'll just let the ironed clothes be,

leave the books open,

and not care if the wet towel's on the bed.

Again.

As usual.

I won't care.

I won't.

I refuse to.

Maybe I'll write poetry today.

Or read some at least.

Buy a book.

Or three.

I'll stand in front of the mirror,

naked,

and accept myself

and my body.

My body,

with gravity-loving breasts,

dimpled cheeks

(of the derriere),

those blasted hate-handles

and that big mound

of quivering,

dancing,

jelly-like lard

and NOT

mourn the decade past,

when I was younger

and definitely beautiful,

but just didn't have the wisdom to see it,

own it

and know it to be true.