Of Aging

Every wrinkle, like a scar, is part of my story,
It’s part of my journey,
It’s deeper than the tattoos on my skin,
Written into my DNA
Like the generational trauma,
Passed down like family heirlooms
Through the years.

It is what I make it,
Like my story of–
pain, beauty, humanity,
witnessing.
I can erase my wrinkles,
But they would remain
All the same–
the wisdom, the hard fought
hard won wars with myself–
the stress and anxiety–
the fear of abandon.

Is beauty youth or grace?
Does “aging gracefully” mean
Showing grace, self-possession
And self-acceptance,
or is it dyeing my hair and getting botox?
Is that all a lie, manufactured confidence?
Is aging gracefully winning the genetic lottery?
Does it mean having no scars?

I’m 32,
and society already
has me labeled as
irrelevant, no matter
the creases on my forehead,
the greys in my hair.
Or at least that’s how it feels,
How it once was and for many
Still is.

Yet I choose to love who I am now,
Who I’m becoming and un-
Becoming–
Age-willing, time-abiding
Chronos-Prothimos,
I’m not done changing yet,
And to change is to live
And be alive.