I love my body.
In the summer, my body is an iridescent golden bronze oasis. In the winter, the bronze turns into a sallow ochre as though God himself was doing arts and crafts when he made me. A deep brown cellophane over a sheet of yellow construction paper. Year long, I am the sun's painting.
My face lacks symmetry with only one dimple as deep as the Euphrates. My lips unapologetically large and juicy like tangerine segments. Beneath them my tongue is sharp yet dexterous, equally capable of kindness and insult. My eyes feminine and feline, the deepest of darkest browns as if they're suppressing childhood traumas.
Clavicle high and prominent to showcase the fragility in my thinness. Breasts are ultraviolet brush strokes.
My back is seamless and smooth like a high quality piece of satin from the garment district. If you follow the ream of satin to my sacrum, you'll find dimples of Venus. Thumbprints left from the caress of a lover.
A small bit of pudge on my tummy, the result of gelato in Paris, nasi goreng in Bali, prawns in Bermuda, rum in Martinique, and pollo guisado in the Bronx.
My hips have the faint tiger stripes of stretched skin in preparation for child bearing.
I have a scar nestled above my belly button from many rejected piercings and one sports accident. My vulva is small like my patience.
My feet are flat to mark the strides I have yet to make. My toes look like jellybeans simply along for the ride.
My body is the hiding place of squid ink, treble clefs, music notes, and phrases of triumph.
If our deeds are for the inhabitants of this earth, and the soul belongs to a higher power, then the only thing we ever really have is our bodies. These mobile large scale art installations that are always on exhibit.
In this world, loving one's body is an act of resistance. And so, I resist.