Am I same
or am I different?
It used to be so important to the girl in the mirror:
Same enough that my prickles were not too obvious,
Different enough to be acknowledged as unique me.
It was such a crucial balance.
That girl used to look at the women who just “let themselves go”,
(Whatever that meant?) and feel sorry for them.
Now I find, to my relief, that
Same or different do not matter so much
“Did that fabric fade, or was it always so ugly?” my brother teased.
I was incensed.
Now I laugh and wear the dress anyway.
It is comfortable and I like it.
I can change the way I comb my hair and no one says a word.
My identity is no longer tangled in my hair.
I like this side of thirty.
I like having accepted who I am,
Letting go of who I cannot be.
I am not same
I am more than the sum of what is seen in the mirror.
I have settled it in my soul:
I am a Beloved Daughter.
The rest doesn’t matter so much.