I’ve pinched the skin I live in,
like maybe it would let go
if I hated it enough.
Newsflash:
It didn’t.
It stayed.
Stretched and soft, wide and wrong—
or so they taught me to think.
I learned shame like a language.
Fluent. Native.
Whispered apologies in the dressing room light.
Held my breath through every photo,
like less of me
was more.
They said,
“You’d be so pretty if…”
as if beauty were a scavenger hunt,
and I just hadn’t found
the right clues.
But let me tell you—
this body walks me through fire.
She carries grief in every curve that won’t come
and every inch that came too loud.
She stayed when I didn’t want her,
and waited while I figured out
how to come home.
This body has danced in bars
where women like me aren’t supposed to.
She’s been mistaken, erased,
fetishized and feared.
But still, she stays.
She shines when I let her.
I used to carve myself up
with “shoulds” and “almosts,”
but I’ve got better tools now—
a mirror,
a light,
a little mercy.
And if you’re reading this
hoping someone sees you—
I do.
In the soft you were told to shrink,
in the scars they told you to hide,
in the parts that don’t match
the world’s crooked ruler—
I see holy ground.
So no,
I won’t shrink.
I won’t straighten.
I won’t sand myself smooth.
This body is mine.
Fat. Trans. Beautiful. Tired. Worthy.
This body is yours.
Bruised. Brown. Awkward. Bent. Brilliant.
And baby,
this body stays.
