Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Old Women

My grandma told me once,

that when you’re an old woman,

you become invisible.

Wandering the world,

unseen,

unheard,

unnoticed.

I’m surprised WASPI women didn’t turn to crime,

to create new pensions for themselves,

under their invisibility cloaks.

The trouble is,

the definition of an “old woman”,

changes all the time,

because there are so many checkpoints,

in a chick’s life,

where she can go from baby to barren in the blink of an eye.

Once it was seventy,

now it appears to be thirty five.

Care homes scare me,

beautiful in brochures,

but a prison,

for people who still have plans,

dreams,

emotions,

(and, sex drives, so I’m told),

so full of women,

who faded from view,

because people decided to stop looking.

Sometimes,

I think I might be old.

I’ve been alive,

for what feels like a long time,

I wonder how much time I have left,

before my face fades from the world’s eyes,

and I am just screaming into the void,

“I AM ACTUALLY STILL HERE.”

I think,

as quietly as I can,

in case I am faded out before my time,

made invisible,

for being inconvenient,

that older women are ignored,

because they see the world for what it is,

and could destroy it,

with fierce,

feminist fingertips,

that frighten the patriarchal path,

we’ve all been ordered to walk.

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