An unopened letter from the body.
I looked at her gripping these pounds of flesh on her thighs,
Belly,
And hips.
And along with them were many more pounds of guilt,
Should-haves and shame.
I wondered if she'd been listening to her body.
Or perhaps she hasn't yet learned how to read its messages.
That I understood.
Listening to the body.
Can sometimes feel like recognizing the handwriting on an unopened letter.
Never want to open it,
Because once you do.
.
.
There is the possibility of finding more should-haves.
More shame.
She smoothed her clothes over her beautiful curves as if trying to make peace with them for a moment.
I wonder what she's thinking.
I hope it's good things.
I hope she sees something beautiful.
Her hands trailed up her ribs and towards her soft,
Bountiful breasts,
Before settling over her heart.
She took a deep breath if she turned to me and said that she finds her body displeasing.
I have no idea what to say to her.
I have no idea what I could say to even begin.
Perhaps.
This is where hope begins.
What I really want for her.
For all of us,
Is to touch,
Love and respect our bodies.
Listen to our bodies.
But I don't think words alone could bring her there.
Trust grows slowly,
Through small acts,
Repeated choices,
And the willingness to keep choosing trust.
If she was raised anything like me.
Having our bodies poked at,
Commented on,
Or Having our food and dress choices questioned was normalised.
We couldn't just eat something.
We had to be judged on it.
What I want for her is a space with other women who are also learning to open their letters and read the message.
So that what she's carrying can begin to feel lighter.
.
.
.
.
.
To feel that she is not alone.
That she is.
And has always been exquisite.
