My body is mine.

It's not the best one I've seen. But, then again, "best" is subjective. Maybe someone likes it.

Maybe someone loves it.

I obsess over it. I don't care for it.

It holds me in and sticks out in some places.

It's jiggly here; firm there.

I hate it. I love it.

Sometimes.

I look to others to approval of it.

I ask them what they think of it.

Only listening to the bad things.

I wonder if I'll ever unconditionally love it.

I know I probably won't.

Unless.

I consider getting it into shape.

I decide to love it the way it is.

I consider depriving it for a week.

I decide to love it the way it is.

I like to move in it; to dance in it.

But not in public.

It's melanated*.

*possessing melanin. no it's not a word. yes it is now.

I cry over it.

I laugh at it.

I admire it.

I have great hips.

I look at its scars.

I remember their meanings; their stories.

I've hurt it.

It's been hurt.

I dress it.

I work it.

My body is mine.