I am beautiful

I am beautiful.

Even when I choose to wear my slouchy purple cotton top, the one that hugs me and feels like a soft caress on my skin, the one that’s easy to nurse in because it has a low scoop neck and I can just pop a full boob out to feed my baby whenever she’s hungry with zero hassle, the one I like to travel in because it’s comfortable and not too hot and not too cold…

I am beautiful.

Even when I look in the mirror at ten til ten in the morning in the bathroom at work with the harsh lighting, and realize that this favorite top of mine does nothing to hide my belly pooch, or the muffin top rolls on my hips, or my bra fat around my armpits, or the back fat under my shoulder blades, and all the doughy, rolly, fatty parts of me are on not only on display but harshly accentuated…

I am beautiful.

Even when my feet, clad in the twelve year old pair of flip flops, the ones that help my aching heels and will be easy to kick off and on at the airport and on the plane, but do not fall into the category of proper work attire, and look somewhat silly below my skinny jeans and purple top…

I am beautiful.

Even when I’ve chosen to wear no makeup today, as I felt my skin needed a refreshing break, and my chin is breaking out, and that damn harsh lighting shows me every imperfection, wrinkle, broken vein, red spot, eye circles, cracked lips, and the rest…

I am beautiful.

Even when I hate my hair, need a pedicure, want a hot bath, feel sticky in places one should never feel sticky…

I am beautiful.

Even when I don’t feel beautiful.

I am a freaking goddess. I created life. I pushed out an eight and a half pound being from my body seven months ago. And I’m still feeding and carrying that being around with me and she’s strong and healthy and happy.

I am beautiful.

I deserve that front paunchy belly, and the doughy rolls, and every stretch mark and under-eye circle because I am a freaking champion mother. They are not battle scars, they are victory medals.

Go me.

I am freaking beautiful.

So self-consciousness and anxiety, you can go shove it. Good day. I SAID GOOD DAY!

 

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Fury

I was tricked
like so many before me
and so many to come

A kiss on the nose
a rose to placate suspicion
the beginnings of doubt

I’m not a victim.
I’m not abused.
I’m just not ready to quit
giving up and giving in

save my life

The questions, accusations, stipulations
the thrum of shots taken
on my loyalty, my truth, my love

Am I where I say I am
am who I say I am
not so sure anymore

Try harder, be better, carry the lies
question the arrogance
just not enough, never enough

I’m not a victim.
I’m not abused.
I’m just not ready to quit
giving up and giving in

save my life

Changing, reeling, yelling, loving
manipulation, capitulation, frustration
lost in the sea, no one in sight

Lines of life severed with a rusty knife
beads of blood on my throat
okay okay okay okay you’re right

Sorry sorry, dry the tears
it’s just that love knows no fears
and this love is too much to throw away

I’m not a victim.
I’m not abused.
But I might be ready to quit
giving up and giving in

Until the bottle smashes overhead
and the screaming flashes a light
into the darkness
illuminating primordial awareness
only the adrenaline
rushes in
my life is in danger
my being is threatened
but I have legs to run

Seasons go by, years take their toll
Fearful eyes turn bold
shameful heart turns cold
running legs plant, take root, take aim
Fury rushes in

I’m not a victim
I survived.
I survived.
I survived.