The me who is she were once strangers, you see.
Who wanted a story.
She is the me with lighter hair and thinner thighs.
The me a smidge ( a tiny bit ) older.
Who terrorizes with stories about what will happen to my body when I’m a smidge older too.
The me who says, “just you wait!”
She is the me who takes her self seriously.
And then doesn’t.
And then does.
She is the me who got married.
And had babies.
And kept them.
She is the me who met a man who matched her.
And then watched the love of her life leave his body.
She is the me who let another he love her.
And she loves he.
She is the me who knows how to do family.
Who says she sometimes envies my freedom when I whine about lack.
She is the me who is always impeccably groomed.
Who hardly ever suffers fools.
Whose indignance is rivaled only by my own.
We share it. It’s super-sized.
She is the me who is a great beauty.
We share it. It’s super-sized too.
She is the me who fights with reality.
And then surrenders.
And then shouts, “put up your dukes!”
And then waves her white flag.
She is the me who drops f-bombs frequently.
And remains a lady.
She is the me who loves like a heavy weight.
And cries like a light weight.
When she lets herself.
Here I get envy too.
She is the me who told me to bring condoms.
And screamed so much it scared me … when … well, never mind.
She is the me who lives in a house with long halls and high ceilings.
Who doesn’t tolerate a mess.
She is the me I call when I have to share the insight with the me who can see.
She is the me who gives until she bleeds.
Who takes great care.
Who keeps her hands open.
Unless they are closed.
She is the me who burns with passion.
For all that she loves.
All of the time.
Including the she that is me.
She is the me I love completely.
Who doesn’t write bad poetry.
Unlike me 😉