Here is the scar from when I had a cyst removed, and was too indignant to stay out of the sun for the summer
Here are the lead spots: two of them, one in my hand and one on my knee, from being stabbed with a pencil in grade school
Here are the pores the magazines said were too big. If only I could be cleaner, tighter, smaller – then I would be better
Here are my legs, that I hated because a boy referred to them as “tree trunks” in high school.
I fucking adore them now
Here are more scars, where the doctors burned off pieces of my skin, where I fell rollerblading outside a hot dog shop, where I hit the deadlift bar against my shins too many times
Here is my hair. I have always loved my hair
Here are my hands, that my brother said were chubby when we were younger. He used to grab my hands when we passed each other in the house and laugh to himself. It’s one of my favorite memories of him now
Here are all the moles and freckles, like both my mother and my father
Here is my pussy – she has been through a lot. So much of my life I did not listen to her. I listen to her now
Here are my arms, that I can lift myself up in the air with
Here are the wrinkles forming on my face, more lines each year, as I consider what more pleasurable uses there are for money besides fixing them
Here is my butt, which I love, whose fat bothered me until I pole danced and realized your butt cannot shake without any fat
Here are my eyes, with their mix of blues and grays and yellows, and a tiny freckle that I thought made me special
Here are my feet, which look like my mother’s
“Tell the story of your body,” she said.
What would the story of your body sound like??
What if you told it as if every bit were fascinating?