Body
I tried to change you,
to chisel you down with the hammer of shame,
to cover you endlessly in silence and fine clothes.
I hid you under sideways glances,
under voiceless “I’m sorry”s.
I punished you for how you grew,
for your marks,
for your hunger for life.
But today,
I see you differently:
like a house that didn’t burn down
even though all its windows were shattered.
I kiss your soft belly
that was once a home for two tiny humans.
I caress your thighs
that carried me through all my winters.
I forgive every fold,
every silence,
every unspoken scream.
I gently touch this stretched, cracked, blooming skin,
an open letter to Heaven.
I don’t want to shrink you, dry you out, or discipline you anymore.
I want to fill you with laughter, barefoot walks, restful sleep.
I want to love you.
Not as armor,
not as a showcase,
but as a living tapestry,
torn and stitched a thousand times over.
My ideal body isn’t another one.
It’s this one:
bruised, forgiven, held close.
It’s this one:
with bones that still dance,
with skin that still longs for gentle touch.
It’s this one.
And today, I choose to call it
HOME,
just as it once knew how to be my home
when my soul forgot how.
