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?