Legs
I was in sixth grade when I realized
I was bigger than all of the other girls in my grade.
Not even a teenager yet,
and I already thought that there was something wrong with me
because my clothes weren't the same size.
Even before middle school had school had started,
I tried diets and exercise
because I wanted to be thin
like them.
I wanted to look good in shorts
like them.
I wanted to have a gap between my thighs
like them.
But it wasn't until my junior year in high school
that I realized that I was absolutely, completely,
positively, one-hundred percent perfect.
Why should it bother me
that my legs have stretch marks and extra fat
when I should take pride
in all of the places they've carried me?
Why should I contribute to a society
where younger girls looking up to us
start to hate themselves, too?
Why should I compare myself to people
whose stories I don't even know?
Why should I hate my muffin top
when everyone knows that
it's the best part of the muffin?
Now, when I look in the mirror,
I refuse to be ashamed of what I see.
I may be a little taller,
I may be a little rounder,
but there is nothing wrong with my body.
I have hands that can build,
feet that can dance,
lungs that can sing.
And my body,
and every body,
is perfectly,
wonderfully,
flawless.