Her body
Is a desert
Bare and minimal
With Dry parts that build up
on the surface
and fly away in the wind

Her body
Is a forest
Lush and life giving
With parts that chirp and growl
All at the same time

People have
trekked the highest peaks
explored the darkest caves
picked the sweetest flowers
Taking with them
much more than she would initially care
Leaving behind
much more than was initially there

People have come
And gone

With vessels as small as row boats
Or as big as Noah’s ark
They navigate the floods
But trust me
there is nothing
holy about these ventures
No

they did not seek to
save two of every animal
They only sought to save themselves

Her body is a beach

Covered in shells
of Past lives
Past lies
Past blessings in disguise
These shells are beautiful

But Leave them
They’re too heavy to carry around

Maybe one day
someone else will take these shells
make them into concrete
And use them as foundation for the grandest, safest, most stable
Sandcastle around
And call it, Love

Because from a strong foundation
Love can only grow
No matter how many times
The wind changes its appearance
From fertile soil, love can bloom again

Her body
is a garden
But be careful
Nature has a way
of hiding poison
In beautiful things

Only to defend,
She is never malicious
It is survival of the smartest
Not the fittest

Other girls are not my competition
I stand with them
Not against them.

My body is my temple,
And my goal is to make it paradise!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

Some poems are hard, I just don’t know what to write
the words stick in the back of my head
and refuse to form sentences and lines.
I sit and wait and hope for the words but
they are lost in the jumble that is my thoughts
like a tangled ball of yarn I have to untangle it piece by piece

and hope it is usable and not just a pile of ruined thoughts.
it reminds me of knitting a sweater
stitch by stitch, word by word, it comes together
and after work and some time it makes
a beautiful thing to be worn and showed off,
but sometimes it fails and falls apart

it unravels in my hands and the hard work
that I have put my love into is lost  
it crumbles like a cliff into the sea
making waves that crash and wreck my body
leaving it helpless and crumpled
like the ball of paper I threw on the floor.

a small white ball on a grey floor,
the beauty of it hits me and I find my inspiration
it’s something simple but isn’t all beauty simple?
the curl of hair on a lover stretched out like a cat in the sun
moonlight floating through the window
falling on a pale white limb so much like the paper

with scribbles and crossed out lines
the paper is beautiful, damaged yes
but beautiful none the less, like a body
with curves and waves and endings and beginnings
scars and stretch marks pail in the dark
shining like tears on the cheek of a girl who lost

lost a parent, or a love, or lost the part of her
that cried “you are beautiful
“you are loved, it’s okay not to be okay
“as long as you rise up again and what ever
you do, do not forget who you are”
it is beauty plain and simple

and as you read my piece of paper
with the lost poem of the girl who fell apart you’ll see
its simple the floor is the sky and the word are stars

you cringe,
as you look in the mirror.

you say a prayer,
hoping God can erase this hate.

you hate you.
how did we get here?

you try to hide it,
hide the many tears and the scars.

you hear people say "she is so beautiful, so bold, so carefree",
your skin crawls.

you try and hide,
be smaller,
be invisible.

but everyone can see,
they can smell it.

your body is aching,
from all the stares.

your soul is rotting,
from all the times self-love was promised, but never given.

you have an enemy,
this enemy is you,
it has always been you.

The other day my sister lamented that she did not look like one of those white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties on television.
This struck me for a number of reasons mainly for the fact that we are Indian girls who are neither white, blonde nor blue-eyed and it is physically impossible for us to be like that because it's coded into our genes.
Why then did my sister want to be so much like these beauties that she could never look like.
Why then did my sister want to change herself so much, change they very coding in her genes, change the very fabric of her body?
I was not able to respond to her at the time but this is my response to her.
Society's standards of beauty were created by entrepreneurs looking to make a quick buck.
They market such celebrities as beautiful and, through subliminal messages tell you that if you do not look like them, you are ugly and not worthy.
And it is so easy for them to do this because of the Westernisation of cultures all over the world.
Go to any supermarket and the first things yo will see under the beauty section are bleaching and whitening creams.
It is true that these white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties are stunning, gorgeous.
But why should their beauty mean that you aren't beautiful?
You are the culmination of years of evolution,
the stars have been planning your arrival.
Look at yourself in the mirror,
Stare into the dark brown irises of your eyes and understand that they are like pools of chocolate, understand that they are the colour of the bark of the tress understand that they are beautiful.
Caress your brown hair, run your fingers through it, you are beautiful.
Look at your caramel-coloured skin, don't you just love the colour? It's deep and sweet and beautiful.
Your body, the vessel of your soul in beautiful and every step you take is magical and your voice sounds like a bow playing perfectly on a violin and your laugh ringing out sounds like wind chimes in a light breeze.
Don't you understand?
You are a ******* masterpiece.
Don't treat yourself any less.

This is the story my body tells...
A story of struggles marked with scars.
A page of freckles from the sun kissing my skin.
Cracks and snaps from the past breaking me down.
Every breath tells my body that my binder is there.
My body tells what I was born as but is becoming what I am.
In a mirror my body shows eyes that have seen so much.
Lips that have spoken many regrets but many accomplishments.
Ears that have heard too much but sometimes not enough.
In a mirror my body tells a deep story.
My stomach houses the scar from a box too sharp.
My fingers grasp the rope so tight that keeps me above the water.
My body tells a story but my mind a deep tale.

Why are we in love with the sight of our own bones protruding just under the skin?
Why do us girls find our image worth more than a meal
and more important than the signs that our bodies are screaming at us
through hunger pains?
What happens when the only thing your body consumes is lies?
Until death takes over
or until were 20 pounds past our initial goal weight
we wont stop.
That is assuming we can stop.