the perfect ideal body image is no where near what I look like. I haven’t really met any guy yet who has referred to my body as beautiful, and you know that’s ok. even though dimples run around my thighs, even though I am marked with lines of strain and streams of growth, it’s ok. I am trying to convince myself that this body I am living in is a beautiful temple; one not to be hated or tortured. a temple to be carefully treated with love and grace. I am trying to convince myself that maybe he fell for what stood out the most. not my body or my outer skin of health, but me, myself, and I. what I stand for, who I care for, how I speak and approach, the way I laugh at a pointless joke that was told an hour before, how I choose pineapples over peaches, or maybe even how I choose simple small talk over a high energy activity. maybe to someone, my body is just perfect, because the other components mean so much more than what is bluntly visible.

                         (j.a.r.)