To love my own flesh, the dimpled skin and sinuous, stretch-marked paths… does this exist?
There are bodies, smooth and svelte, women with limbs like art. And I have this: five feet plus two inches, breasts that drip and splay, dark knees like onion skins. I have seen shapelier legs, creamy and flawless, whispering beneath the hems of fluttering skirts and beckoning the silent praise of men. I praise them too. They are graceful. They are glorious. And I wonder where my grace hides and if beauty will find me one day. And then she does.
She walks with me at night when the silver moon probes like the wild eye of God. She sings to me in summer, the orchestra of insects in sweet symphonic harmony. She flickers in the flames where bonfires leap and burn. She smiles through the faces of strangers, with lips curved up like cats’ tails. She glistens on my window pane when rain splashes and streaks the world.
Beauty is not lost. She is everywhere: in breath and bones, and everything. She is smooth, and dimpled, and onion-skinned. She is five feet plus two inches, if I imagine her so. She is both perfect and flawed.
Beauty is gratitude awakened.
And I can feel good, if I try.