Like Me

Back when I was young and fresh,
how sad it is, that I felt of so little value.
I should have known how precious I was...
should have felt it.
I've put a lot of miles on, now, and bear the scars
typical of a lifetime of roller-coaster joys and tears...
I love them all...
they are my badges of merit, my medals of war.
They make me who I am, and I've learned
to love much of what I used to try to overcome.
I can love the loud laugh, the raucous sense of humor,
the fact that I still blush easily, my hopes, my dreams and fears...
and that I still expect the best.
I love that occaisionally, young men still hit on me,
if only to hear my laugh,
and that old men love me, because I make them feel alive,
and how so many people
pour their woes and life-stories out to me...
I even like my body, though, at times,
I treat it like an enemy, to be conquered.
I like my arms, grown heavy with holding babies and lovers,
my scarred, large hands, and my graying hair.

I wish I had a friend like Me.