I wonder sometimes about
my body, and how I might have loved it better
had I accepted myself more.
Instead of wanting my
curves to disappear, what if I wanted them to do
things regardless of the looks?
If I accepted my bare self
and all the things I and that body could do
would I have done more?
My forty-ish body has
the beauty of gentle decline, soft
curved, genetically-blessed.
But it never was conqueror
on the field of play, nor exulted in triumph,
being pushed to an extreme.
At a pace where I set my standards high
and made myself the master of these
so many pounds of flesh?
Were my queer-bodied self more
authentically mine, might I have run it to a
more comfortable place?
And found myself more comfortable
in a less-stretched skin that I could live in?
Would I wear a different face?
I can not know, but only rejoice
in those whose bodies have become their voice.
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