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.