The CofC chaper of NOW put together a small book called "The Look Book" with submissions from the CofC community. All or almost all of the submissions were awesome and got in. This (poem + picture) is mine.
My body was fully, truly, really
average
in size
and I knew it and I rejoiced because
somehow, I had managed to
shrink
d
o
w
n
into an acceptable form.
By myself, in candle light
and morning sun
and touching my own hip bones,
kneecaps, collarbones,
wrists, ankles, shoulders,
oh god those shoulders,
I was in love with my body.
But it was an affair,
an illicit romance because
culture media doctor friends school tv
fucking bitch-ass magazines
told me it wasn't enough.
That stomach needed to be tightened
and that chest needed to be bigger
and that face needed to be perfected,
then hidden with
waxing tweezing masks
five different cleansers
toner lotion foundation powder
mascara eyeliner eyeshadow
and hair that required
at least an hour of maintenance
every
single
day.
It's not some freak accident.
Our standard of beauty is like that,
all that work, all that time,
all that pressure, all that judgement
to prevent women from
speaking up
playing
studying
working
orgasming
and changing the world so that
what we can achieve in life
is determined by neither sex nor gender
nor whether those match up
nor who we love
nor the color of our skin
nor the name or possession of a god
nor where we were born
nor any of the things that make us
individuals.
I thought I was fat, and I was healthy
I thought I was ugly, and I was stunning
I thought that beauty
was the number of products on my body
But despite what the media tries to tell me
beauty is not something bought.
It's loving the feel
of my muscles and skin and bones,
coming together to kick patriarchy's ass.
