Growing up
I had zero sense
of awareness
of my body.
One sentence
changed
that.
“You have a big ass.”
I didn’t know.
I just had my body.
Convinced cookies
gave me a booty,
and milk gave me
a curvy bosom.
After years of trying
to be more aware,
I grew
to love.
I love that my butt
is not flat.
That I have to turn,
sidle in sideways,
into spaces.
I love that my hips are wide,
contouring contrasts
with what’s above
and what’s below.
I love that my waist cinches
right at the bottom
of my cage of life.
I love the swoop
my waist makes.
That my tummy has
the subtlest of lines,
directional arrows
to what’s uniquely
my own.
I love my broad,
strong shoulders,
the dip down my back
aligned with my spine.
I love the little crescent
within my collarbone.
I love the veins
that trace my wrists,
and the lines of my triceps.
I love my smooth,
firm and thick
calve muscles.
I love my feet
that tend to go flat.
I love that I can
feel muscles within.
I love my birthmark
on the back of my right thigh,
and the scars on my middle finger,
knees and beneath my eyebrow.
I love that I jiggle,
that I’m firm,
that I bounce.
That I grow.