Across the room you stand,
Tall, long and thin,
Light gleaming off
your flawless, smooth skin.
I call you a friend,
Yet sometimes, you aren’t.
Frequent jibes,
Every day, taunting
Refusing the gift,
I have always wanted.
You are not cruel,
Only truthful,
Very tactful,
But sometimes,
Brutal,
It’s not only I
who trembles at
your opinions on
imperfection.
You are still always there,
You watch me as I fade into slumber,
You are the first one, who helps me,
When I awaken,
Sorting through jeans and
Hand knitted jumpers,
You determine my style,
And I can hardly loathe you
for that.
Yet you still act all noble,
You have seen me smile and cry,
Sometimes you help,
Sometimes you hide.
I fear the day you notice
the creases in my skin,
The marks on my hands,
The silver in my hair,
I know you won’t change,
You’ll act all wise,
Glance at my decay,
And my upcoming demise.