I like my dark orange hair,
the way it hangs low beneath my shoulders
and drapes down my spine.  
I like how it looks in braids.  
I like how pretty my toes look when I wear scarlet polish.
I like how tiny my ankles are.
I like having a little waist
and how it tilts to one side.
I like how cute I feel with my face naturally
and I like my round nose.
I like the way my teeth look
after I have Oreos and coffee in the morning.  
I like my spidery fingers and my baby wrists.  
I like how dainty they look when I play piano.  
I like how they look with chipped nail polish.  
I like my body
I like the uneven scatter of bones and ridges,
like when the plates under the sea collide and rise.
Pretty words make the negatives desirable.
I like these things today.

You used to like untangling my braids and bobby pins.  
You loved it when my knees were just draped over yours.
You said you liked the way my skin looked porcelain over your sun kissed legs.  
You'd kiss every freckle and define my gentle jaw with your lips.  
You never called me beautiful,
you were more creative,
more artistic than that.  
You hid poetry around the apartment,
under chairs,
on window sills and my favorite,
in empty pockets for me to find when we weren't home together.
You'd hide the best ones underneath the floorboards, for only us to find.  
As long as those words were hidden, so were we.  
Your favorite place to hide is in the kitchen masked by flour and spices,
waiting for me to find you.  
And your favorite place to find me is running the bathwater among lit candles.