I have been born in this skin,
and have loved it wholeheartedly.
I've watched it grow, and play,
nurturing it, neglecting it. I know
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.
I know the sent of my body; every follicle
of hair which grows wild,
soft and familiar, like the forests of home.
I love the wrinkles, and dimples,
the great mass of my flesh.
My fingers play across it
as a child would trace her fingers over
the body of a lake, or the frost
on windows during a cool morning.
I speak in tongues, in dreams, and images
that no other could hope to know.
I walk my mind in summer afternoons,
and nights on a lonely beaches.
I imagine,
ugly and silly,
stupid and witty,
wonderful, fanciful,
and frightening blurrs;
and they are all beautiful,
and they are all my own.
I love myself, even when I am unfair
even when I am wrong, and selfish, and angry.
Even when I wish to rip at myself
until I’m a harmless mass
of calcium and iron.
Even when I heave under the scale of things
so much larger than this, so much darker and older
and deeper than this,
there is a voice in my heart that says:
no.
You are a daughter of dying stars
and You are stronger than the trees you love
and You are not perfect
and I love You.
and I forgive You.
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.
So tell me stranger,
what do you know of loving me?
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
I have been born in this skin,
and have loved it wholeheartedly.
I've watched it grow, and play,
nurturing it, neglecting it. I know
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.
I know the sent of my body; every follicle
of hair which grows wild,
soft and familiar, like the forests of home.
I love the wrinkles, and dimples,
the great mass of my flesh.
My fingers play across it
as a child would trace her fingers over
the body of a lake, or the frost
on windows during a cool morning.
I speak in tongues, in dreams, and images
that no other could hope to know.
I walk my mind in summer afternoons,
and nights on a lonely beaches.
I imagine,
ugly and silly,
stupid and witty,
wonderful, fanciful,
and frightening blurrs;
and they are all beautiful,
and they are all my own.
I love myself, even when I am unfair
even when I am wrong, and selfish, and angry.
Even when I wish to rip at myself
until I’m a harmless mass
of calcium and iron.
Even when I heave under the scale of things
so much larger than this, so much darker and older
and deeper than this,
there is a voice in my heart that says:
no.
You are a daughter of dying stars
and You are stronger than the trees you love
and You are not perfect
and I love You.
and I forgive You.
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.
So tell me stranger,
what do you know of loving me?