Looking in the mirror and finding something good to say for 15 days. This is the result.
She looks into the mirror, into the soul of the reflection that won't hear her. She lovingly twirls the curls colored like her favorite tea - passion. Rich berry coils oiled with coconut. She cant help but sway her sassy strut flaunting a perfect juicy butt. Hugging the fabric of her dress - how could she not be impressed? When she feels a mess, she applies bright shadow above her almond shaped brown eyes. Emphasized with glasses, envied by the masses for the beauty of her lashes. Her eyes pass over the broken skin on her chin. Tries to erase it and replace it with a grin from admiration of her lips. Skinny upper and fat bottom like the curve of her hips. All felt in the passion of her kiss. She can't dismiss the quizzical arch of her brows; how she maintains those silky worms, who knows. But she loves the expressions that they show. Her hands are big but she admires them too. Hands that know how to hold a brush to paper; her weapon instead of making fists at the men who raped her. That might explain the wounds on her shoulder. She tries to pry the boulder that smolders her. Even so she loves the arm that is tattooed over old self harm - she wants to heal instead of peeling her art apart. So much ink she can't think of how many, but she loves the canvas that is her body. A true “me” expression for all to see. She is a creative being. A gentle pat and smile at her firm yet soft belly that might have others jelly. The part of her body that housed two important people, gave life and she worships this steeple where she carried love and life. Her breasts that expanded and shrunk multiple times, but also gave liquid life to strong, healthy babies. Cute and perky and maybe it makes her quirky to like the double role they play, to give nourishment to a newborn child but in the bedroom makes her man wild. Her gaze moves to her feet that keeps her strong enough to stand, navigating a land of coals that sear her soles. A gaze that moves back to the holes in her skin. She doesn't love this part but knows it's because she still has monsters within. She is determined not to let them win. Fingertips so good at crafting, a crooked smile when caught laughing, long legs that keep her stride wide and pushing forward, toward better things than the scars she keeps. She looks into the mirror, into the soul of the reflection that won't hear her. Tells it to leave her alone, to stop calling her when no one is home so she can pick, cut and bruise this body she loves. She wants to rise above, wear gloves if she has to. She chooses love.
~Kristina Rose Garcia 2021