Becoming Me

As my hands skim along my stretch stained thighs,

I see no glimpse of the girl who was

In that little leotard with sparkling hazel eyes.

I feel my breath panting, heart pounding, mind pressing,

Mortified and helpless in that red leather booth,

My sticky bones cannot “just toss on the dressing”.

The elder woman with the sage flowery cardigan eats alone,

Grinning from ear to ear with delight

Someone who is comfortable in their skin and has grown

From the messy cyclone that is the past.

The past.

My past.

Moving on from my past.

Her past.

I picture what she was like at my age

Full of hope and happiness,

A teenager who fought for rights with rage.

Maybe she was like me, who got

Down on her withered knee

To tie their sneakers with bright yellow spots,

Filling the streets and spreading love

Trying to find a better day

But reminded of the powers above.

The powers above.

Whatever that means.

But thinking of her helps me reminisce in a positive light,

Of the past that I shake out of my head,

Pulling me into that bliss of the pink tutu and tights.

If I am worrying about my beautiful red scars

Or what others will think of me after they know

I will miss the illuminating colors of the rainbow and bright shining stars.