I’m 49 years old and I’ve just decided that I like my body.
I like my deep-set eyes; the ones that make people think I am something
I am not; an accident of genetics; an unexplained phenomenon.
I like my crooked nail and my birthmark that looks like a permanent
bruise; inflicted by a pugilist god.
Like my flesh is showcasing my emotional vulnerability. My perceived tenderness.
I like my freckles and my age spots too. I like my knobbly knees and
elbows, my tendency to put on weight
sideways, not front-ways. Like a wobbly Welsh dresser, or iced custard tart.
I like my Irish colouring. So pale that make-up never quite produces
a shade light enough. Never accounts
for the least brazen amongst us. Always, still, venerates the fake-golden calf.
I even like my teeth, with their precarious overhang, and odd, eclectic vibe.
Like an informal wake, or
an overture of broken, slightly unpredictable, but still cherished, individuals.
I like my backwards glance, my gallows humour, my department store
trauma, and my elevator musak – my
creative flow. Singing in the bath and talking to cats. Like a glamorous diva.
I like my body. I like its quirky knobs and buttons, its tatty china cups and
And finally, I like the fact that it keeps on going. I like the fact I’m still alive.
Claire Sexton is a forty-something librarian living and working in London. She also writes poetry and occasionally creative non-fiction. She has been published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Foxglove Journal, Amaryllis, Stare’s Nest, Peeking Cat Poetry and other magazines. She has just adopted a magnificent tortie cat called Queenie.