Taking back the body.

It was all adding up to this moment. The final test of acceptance. The bed was soft. My thighs and stomach were softer. I ran my hands over them, feeling every bump, every mole, every inch of smooth, silky, alabaster skin. I let my hands slid down my legs. Massaging the raised, inflamed continents of my body. My natural tattoos. Further down, strong, thick ankles. A quiet thank you slipped from my lips. Then louder. Honest, genuine love flowed from inside. I thanked every part of my body I had ever spoken down to. Legs, ankles, feet, toes. They had and will continue to carry me all over the world. They propelled me on a rusty, blue, bike. A bike that carried both my mother and father at different times in their lives. My father, in a suit on his way home from the train. My mother, with a baby on the back and another child peddling behind her as they rode around the lake. I thanked my stomach for allowing me to digest the most divine, luscious, food. My head, with its ears, eyes, mouth and nose. Gateways to so many glorious pieces of life. Thank you. Thank you. You are wonderful, marvelous, majestic. You are the best you that ever existed.
Later explaining it to my love I said with a new found confidence, if my body was a friend she would hate me. She would sit in her darkened room and cry. She would look in the mirror and she would hate what she saw. Why would I speak to a friend like that, I asked. Why would I speak to my body like that? If my body could have it would have deserted me years ago. I made a promise then, to thank it every single day.