Body Love

I know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm like squeezing into last years prom dress. I know girls who are low rise, mac eye shadow, and binge drinking. I know girls who wonder if they're disaster or sexy enough to fit in. I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the masks of their skin. Playing Russian roulette with death, it's never easy to except that our bodies are fallible and flawed. But when do we draw the line? When the knife hits the skin? Isn't that the same thing as purging? Some women just have more guts then others. The funny thing is women like us don't shoot. We swallow pills. Still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue. Still proceeding to put on make up. Still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable, and attractive, who might as well be buried with our shoes and handbags and scarves. Girls, we flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark into our skin. I know how to split my wrists to reveal a battle field too, but the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies. Our bodies deserve more then to be war-torn and collateral offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say "I only know how to exist when I am wanted!" Girls like us are hardly ever wanted, you know? We're used up, and sad, and drunk, and perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up and tell us that we did good. We did good. 

Try this. Take your hands over your bumpy love body, and remember the first time you touched someone with the sole purpose of learning all of them. Touch yourself with a purpose. Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore. No, not your razor. Put the sharpness back. Lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin. I know touched a tree with charred limbs. The stump was still breathing, but the top was just ashy remains. I wonder what it's like to come back from that because some times, I feel forest fires erupting from my wrists, and the smoke signals that are sent out are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet and brother, arm rapping shoulders, and remember, this is important. You are worth more then who you fuck, you are worth more then a waist line. You are worth more then any beer bottle displayed like drunken artifacts, more then a mans whim or your father's mistakes. You are no less valuable as a size 16 then a size four. You are no less valuable as 32a then a 36c. Your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood. You are a god damn tree stump with leave sprouting out. 

Reborn.