We hear it on the radio, our favorite song comes on.
“I love this part,” I say.
Why can’t we say this same thing about our bodies?
“I love this part, here, this scar from a summer day when I was too full of my youth
This curve, where a lover presses their lips and whispers ‘Like this, always.’
The crease in my face when I smile that holds in its shadow every smile”
“I love this part,” and I’ll trace my fingers over the ridge of a muscle that rises when I pick up my child and swing her on my hip
Stroking my neck, I’ll say, “I love the vocal chords that let me say to a friend, ‘I am so sorry.’
The slope of my ears that listen and the hair of my eyebrows that crease when her words spill out all night
I love this part- the bulge that makes my knees bend, that gets sore and protests when I spend too long biking in the sun
The part that puckers my lips to kiss
The softness in the palms of my hands that tells people that they are known, seen, loved”
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