Dysmorphia

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Scrutinising in despair

Her naked reflection:

The cellulite that might be

In two, ten or twenty years,

Hair that shines like gold,

That might turn silver... or grey.

The deep furrows that burn into her skin.

Lines that etch her frown and each anxiety;

Cold desert cunt, false teeth smile and prescription lenses,

Scrutinising in despair

Her naked reflection.

Tits too small, yet sinking slowly

To their rendezvous with the navel,

Perhaps those hidden rolls of fat

May concertina over stomach

And ripple down thighs -

A tsunami plague of pies and cake,

A self obsessed depression.

She scrutinises in despair,

Her fated reflection.

Luna