Exasperated with apologies,
I’m counseling my girlfriends to be proud
of getting to our age. We ought to seize
this opportunity to state out loud:

I didn’t buckle to the discipline.
I figured out a method to survive
as my own guide – my needy origin
promoted motivation.
I’m alive,
and that which didn’t kill me made me strong.
Don’t tell me, don’t police me, never seek
to bend me where my spirit won’t belong;
I’m stubborn, and I’d rather fight than sneak.

I’m sick of being lady-like. I see
no value in my own apology.

This entry was posted in Aging, Health, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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