Ode To The Fight She Fought

My body is a warrior. 

She fights everyday. 

You see it, and see its flaws. 

I see it, and I see its majesty. 

I see the battles it fought. 

I see its fight to stay alive. 

You dare to ask me how old I am? My body is exactly the right age. She's as old as the sun, and the moon and the tigress prowling through the jungle. She's as old as anything that fights to stay alive. She's as old as the ant that braves foes much bigger than itself, that goes through poisoned rooms and possible snakes and monsters trying to stamp out its existence to bring a bit of sugar back home to its queen. I am the ant, I am the queen. 

My age is the fine lines in my brain, that are full of my history, my experiences, all the things I've seen and all the things I've done conveniently shrunk to fit inside my head. Numbers are a scratch on paper; they don't define my age.

Who are you to call me fat? What do you understand about my fatness? What do you understand about the trauma it hides, about the sadness and the betrayal, and the things I've lost and gained and won? They say people have layers. What's your problem with mine?

You say my eyebrows are too thick or too thin, my hair is too straight or too curly or too frizzy or too limp, or my skin is too bright or too dark or too pock-marked for you. What do you understand about my skin? 

Every dot on my face is a testament to the places I've been, every wrinkle has a story to tell. Who are you to tell me about the shape of my chin, or the colour of my skin? 

What problem do you have with my ass? Why should it wonder if it's the correct size for your eyes when instead it can sway with joy, with the unending pride of being, with the spirit of life itself?

If I have a limp, it's because my legs fought a war. Don't call it a hunch if you don't know why its hunching. It hunches like the lioness, shoulders down, eyes sharp, ready to pounce.

Every last fight I've fought shows on my body, who are you to tell me which parts of my war are acceptable? What does it matter which parts of my fight are pleasing to your eye?

What do you know about my rough hands, or the cracks on my feet? Why are my lips either too big or too small? I'm not Goldilocks, I don't have to be just right. If my fullness of being is a problem for you, then you're the problem, not me.

You think my ears are too big? Open yours and listen: that's your problem, not mine. 

There's nothing wrong with the dots on my skin, the curl of my hair, the colour of my eyes, the colour around my eyes, the hair on my chin, the knuckles on my fist. I don't care if you think my breasts are too small, or too big; they're the proof of my bounce back. 

I don't care if you think my legs are too long or too short. They're exactly what I need to walk away from you. 

You say you speak with concern, but where were you when the war was fought? Where were you when I needed a hand, or a sword or a shoulder, or a shaman tie-up? 

You don't speak out of concern, you speak out of hate, you speak to control. You think if you can get me to start polishing my chin, I won't see the ugliness you're trying to hide within yourself. 

Well, my chin is fine, and I see you for what you are. I see your jealousy, I see your smallness. I am not you, you are not me. 

I'm not hiding the unacceptable parts of myself to please you. I am here. I am full. And you? You with the small eyes and the fat opinions - you don't matter.