The Expansion of Ember

I
I'm getting older now.
Not by a lot, but it's there.
Others notice I think.
No longer bold and fresh,
but shaped and set.

But, when I look in the mirror:
Ah, the rolling, foothills of the spine,
reaching out to the cove of the waist,
and soft, slight, jetties
of hip and bust,
Rising, curving,
Into a ravenstorm of hair
And distant eyes, threatening rain.

It's shameful
But
Like my terrible ancestors
Of the gun and sword,
I look lustfully upon this holy land.

I want more.

It's sunday, May the Seventh.
The scale reads one-hundred and ten.
A willowy sylph.
I need more.

II
As you get older,
(Even in your twenties you can feel it)
your skein begins to shrink.
Life can only knit you
into so few things
with what remains.
the stitch is clear
the remaining color,
Apparent;
No more sudden flourishes
that could Inspire,
or even Repulse,
a waiting recipient
or admiring onlooker.

No.

Not me.
I'll frog myself
when life turns.
I am not
so kinked
that I can't be reworked.
I'll steal myself away,
and make myself into a Tapestry
of my own Design.

I made a change.
Today, I look upon life with a burgeoning hunger.
Now, I'll always be sweet of tooth and quick to bite.
Always, I'll lick my fingers and my plate.
And my body will grow to contain
my furtive Lust.

I will live deliciously.

It's wednesday, May the Tenth.
The scale reads one-hundred and twelve.
Another halfnotch of the belt.
I need more.