Dear Body:
You are the battleground on which I wage wars with myself.
You withstand the shots fired, wait patiently as each side gains and loses, and welcome, tearfully, the surrender.
You are far from perfect. You ache, you get weary, you take up a lot more space than most people think you should.
You are covered in the visible and invisible scars of my life.
You have stood your ground, unmoving, through mistreatment and ridicule. You have had your nails bitten to the quick since your mouth could bite, the skin pulled off of your lips till they were bleeding because it's a habit I'll never stop.
You have been covered with too much fabric, worked till you were exhausted. Unappreciated, covered in writing. Covered in shame.
You are fat. You have your father's eyes, your Papa's broad shoulders, your mother's hipbones and all of their collective stubborn.
Your thighs are way past touching, your stomach is absolutely huge, all of your ample fat jiggles when you stick out your hip in sarcasm.
And no, I'm not sorry.
You are capable.
You enable me to be.
You draw, sing, laugh, write, cry, throw a hell of a punch, and rock lipstick like nobody's business.
You are beautiful.
You are a rolling expanse of flesh and love, all the unstoppable force of 270 pounds of unapologetic sass.
You have been shamed and despised bitterly, for which I am so sorry, and loved and owned and shown off proudly, for which I will never apologize to anyone.
Dear Body:
You are mine, inside and out.
You take up space, and I thank you.
