I once believed my body
was crafted for you.
My lips, my thighs,
my breasts, my hips,
every feature,
surely cherry-picked
as if the Creator
purposed me to fulfill
your request.
Made to order, tailored,
to satisfy your desires,
I wore my hair
'feminine'
the way you liked.
'Keep it straight, baby,
you look nice.'
Dressed to please your eyes
without revealing 'too much.'
Comfortable in my skin
because you thought it pleasing.
Confidence and obsession
for the wrong damn reasons.
How did I ever stoop
so low as to lie
bare in your presence,
presenting myself
like some sacrificial
offering for heaven?
You are not God,
and my body is
not your possession.
Take a good look.
Yes, 'all of that is mine.'
Its curves are for me.
Its wetness is for me.
Its softness and sexiness,
its beauty and imperfections,
all of it, for me.
I own my body in its entirety,
from the ends of my afro
to the bottom of my feet.
I am a proud repossession,
happily reclaimed, for me, by me.
