"You’re twenty-two years old, with a lifetime of
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re..."
“You’re twenty-two years old, with a lifetime of
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re doing okay, though: wearing lipstick in shades
that make you look least afraid of being alive.
But then you go and fall into bed with a boy
whose waist is hardly as big around as your upper thigh,
and you spend the next month trying to figure out
why someone like him would ever want all
of this.
I am trying to be the woman
who wears her body in double digits,
but does not dress her mouth in apologies.
The woman who could not be cowed
into finishing school quiet,
who does not sit with her knees together,
who does not have a pretty laugh,
who still believes she is beautiful,
even when she is the big one in the relationship.
But society tells me there is too much of my body
for it to be worth anything. See,
you can’t solve a recession by printing more bills.
To have in excess is to have practically nothing.
When a diamond’s not rare, it’s just a rock.
When my body is too big, its value depreciates:
one step down for every pound over perfect.
I spent years unlearning this, but it never went away.
Proven by how terrifying it is to be touched
by beautiful boys with pianist’s hands
and thin hips.
I have preached self-love to anyone who would listen,
only to be proven hypocrite, snake in the grass,
unbeliever in the pulpit.
So this body is my temple, and all it took
was a pair of thin wrists to destroy it.
Every kiss raises questions I am afraid
to put words to.
When he touches my stomach
I have to force myself not to push his hands away.
When he takes too long to answer a text message,
I can’t stop the feeling that this is it:
this is where the daydream crumbles,
where he comes to his senses,
where reality floods back in.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,
for the rug to get yanked out from under me,
for a girl who looks like him to come along
and ruin everything.
But he is still here. Soft and sharp and gorgeous.
There is no part of me he is afraid to touch.
I don’t know how to get rid of my fear.
But there’s something else underneath:
something warm and honey gold and light.
Nobody says my name
the way he does.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like too much.
I’ve spent a lifetime feeling flavor-of-the-week.
Maybe this is the beginning of believing
in my own permanence.
I know better
than to put my self-worth in anyone else’s hands–
even hands as beautiful as his.
I’m not asking him to create my value.
I am standing here, head held high,
declaring myself inherently valuable
and daring him to prove me right.”
- SKINNY BOYS WITH BEAUTIFUL HANDS by Ashe Vernon
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re doing okay, though: wearing lipstick in shades
that make you look least afraid of being alive.
But then you go and fall into bed with a boy
whose waist is hardly as big around as your upper thigh,
and you spend the next month trying to figure out
why someone like him would ever want all
of this.
I am trying to be the woman
who wears her body in double digits,
but does not dress her mouth in apologies.
The woman who could not be cowed
into finishing school quiet,
who does not sit with her knees together,
who does not have a pretty laugh,
who still believes she is beautiful,
even when she is the big one in the relationship.
But society tells me there is too much of my body
for it to be worth anything. See,
you can’t solve a recession by printing more bills.
To have in excess is to have practically nothing.
When a diamond’s not rare, it’s just a rock.
When my body is too big, its value depreciates:
one step down for every pound over perfect.
I spent years unlearning this, but it never went away.
Proven by how terrifying it is to be touched
by beautiful boys with pianist’s hands
and thin hips.
I have preached self-love to anyone who would listen,
only to be proven hypocrite, snake in the grass,
unbeliever in the pulpit.
So this body is my temple, and all it took
was a pair of thin wrists to destroy it.
Every kiss raises questions I am afraid
to put words to.
When he touches my stomach
I have to force myself not to push his hands away.
When he takes too long to answer a text message,
I can’t stop the feeling that this is it:
this is where the daydream crumbles,
where he comes to his senses,
where reality floods back in.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,
for the rug to get yanked out from under me,
for a girl who looks like him to come along
and ruin everything.
But he is still here. Soft and sharp and gorgeous.
There is no part of me he is afraid to touch.
I don’t know how to get rid of my fear.
But there’s something else underneath:
something warm and honey gold and light.
Nobody says my name
the way he does.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like too much.
I’ve spent a lifetime feeling flavor-of-the-week.
Maybe this is the beginning of believing
in my own permanence.
I know better
than to put my self-worth in anyone else’s hands–
even hands as beautiful as his.
I’m not asking him to create my value.
I am standing here, head held high,
declaring myself inherently valuable
and daring him to prove me right.”
- SKINNY BOYS WITH BEAUTIFUL HANDS by Ashe Vernon
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