What treasures do I
hold? Each day they peer into
me expectantly.
It is beautiful,
they say. Textbook example.
It's gorgeous, in fact.
What is it? I muse.
What could possibly be so
stunning about me?
I am just an old
woman. My stiff body is
tired and worn out.
At my age, beauty
is a distant memory.
A remnant of youth.
But they keep coming
back, continue to prod, dig.
Keep on exclaiming.
Now, I understand.
I am more than aged parts;
more than guts and bones.
It's as if every
time they look into me they
unlock a world of
knowledge. My nerves, veins,
tendons, muscles. Me. Inside
of me, beauty lives.
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