I remember what it was like
to be the one that turned everyone's heads
To be watched, and have my hair stroked
and told how lovely and thick and golden it is.
Old men, with a sharp intake of breath, wished they were 20 or 30 years younger.
Now, I fade,
My black dress clings too tightly
My mousey brown locks are wound tightly onto my head, to keep the wind from blowing my hair into my lipgloss.
People notice I'm there when I add something to the conversation
and they look up, surprised that I've been there all along.
It used to be me that started conversations.
I know I'm not the same me that I was on the outside,
but where has the me on the inside gone?