You trace the lines of yourself like a map you don’t want to follow,

marking the places you wish were different,  
the curves you want sharper,

the softness you wish would disappear.  

You stand in front of the mirror,

tilting your head, narrowing your eyes,

as if looking hard enough will turn you into something else.  

I watch you.

I watch the war inside you.

And I want to break every mirror in this world

so you only ever see yourself through my eyes.  

Because if you did,

you would see what I see.

You would see a body sculpted from quiet chaos,

a face that rewrites beauty every time you breathe,

a shape that was never meant to fit into anything but the space it already fills.  

You would see a storm wrapped in silk,

a universe too vast to be contained by skin,

a masterpiece that does not need correcting.  

But you don’t.

You don’t, because you have been taught to measure yourself in flaws.

Taught to carve yourself down until there is nothing left but what the world wants.

Taught to shrink.

Taught to erase.

But I am here.

And I refuse to let you disappear.  

So let me show you.  

Let me show you the way your eyes hold galaxies when they catch the light just right.  

The way your skin sings beneath my hands,  

the way your lips curve like poetry before it’s even spoken.  

Let me show you the beauty in every scar,
  
every inch of flesh you’ve learned to hate,
  
every part of you that has carried you this far.  

Let me trace your body with my fingertips until you understand

this is art.

This is perfection without the lie.

This is flawless, not because it is free of imperfection,

but because it was never meant to be anything else.  

Let me love you until you have no choice but to believe it.

Until my hands rewrite every cruel thing you’ve ever told yourself.

Until you stand in front of the mirror and see what I see.  

Not a question.

Not a flaw.

Not a mistake.

But a miracle.