Katrina Kaye

My aging face has changed more
than anticipated. I never expected
to not recognize myself in the mirror,

nor did I realize the footprint of every
thing I have ever done would fester
inside me and bloom on skin.

Is this what it means to become?

Perhaps this is the moment when
my rough fabric becomes fur.
Perhaps now,

(with the wrinkles and dark spots,
the daily bubble and sulk,
burn holes and scratches,
the swell of chin and lump of nose)

I am real.

Maybe to be real is to be a bit broken,

a bit aged,

a bit unrecognizable.