My age is shown in armoured plates,
shells coating my body. Each one no thicker
than a single hair and full of patch jobs
from nicks and scrapes I’ve received
clawing my way here through thorned words,
cactus remarks, daggers thrown at me with a single look.
Sometimes, not even I can remember who I am underneath,
and I know I would feel naked if I stripped them back.
But that lemon juice you offer is so fresh.