I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin
Playing Russian roulette with death; it's never easy to accept that our bodies are fallible and flawed
But when do we draw the line?
When the knife hits the skin?
Isn't it the same thing as purging
Because we're so obsessed with death
We flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark into our skin
I know how to split my wrists to reveal a battlefield too
But the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies
Our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral
Offering this as a pathetic means to say,
"I only know how to exist when I am wanted."
Your body is the most beautiful royal
Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore
Are not your razor
Put the sharpness back
Lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin
I once touched a tree with charred limbs
The stump was still breathing
But the tops were just ashy remains
I wonder what it's like to come back from that
Because sometimes I feel forest fires erupting from my wrists
And the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things I've ever seen
You are worth more than who you attract
You are worth more than a waistline
More than a man's whim or your father's mistake
You are a holy tree stump with leaves sprouting out
Reborn*
*Mary Lambert, Body Love
