Cracks 

I should write a letter:

It starts like:
“Dear Self,
Don’t ever stare at your ass in the mirror.
There are dips and folds and shadows
that only know how to make tricks
of your body
until you are wishing a magician would
saw you in half,
so maybe the scars could be even.

Dear Self,
you wrote words onto pages instead of
stanzas into skin
and for that you should be celebrating victory
and not wallowing in
fatty chasms
that you believe you can never climb out of
unscathed.

Then
dear Self,
wear your battles, babe.
You hated being skinny
because your soul was so full
and the days you lived,
you saw only rolls
in the mirror
and
DONT STARE AT YOUR ASS.

It was a little over a year ago,
you remember I’m sure,
you’re on a yoga mat in an unfamiliar house
with a girl who made you feel like you aren’t so alone in this world.
And here’s what she taught you:
that fighting doesn’t always mean stay dry,
fighting is not improvement upon the first try.

Fighting
is coming back to the mat,
for something as simple as breath.
Fighting is getting motivated even if you only
do one set.
Fighting is endorphins that made you get up and go,
and maybe some days let you cry.

But fighting is always do, do, do
and instead of do not, I’ll settle for “tried”.

So,
sweet Self,
over a year later,
when you’re staring at your ass in the mirror,
here’s the difference:
For starters, you HAVE an ass.
For runners up, you’re working at that.

And for those who don’t know,
for all the times you were sore,
the sweat was just the beginning.
You pushed yourself forward,
you had strength and your pen flowed,
and because of this,
your wrists remain empty.

Dear Self,
despite what I said,
your body is not a trick.
Dear Self,
it’s true there are some shadows,
but everywhere else,
there’s light shining in.

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