Her ears are discarded snail shells that have become too much to carry. Her song is a robin’s egg fallen to the ground. Her shoulders are a bridge in an earthquake. Her belly-button is the smallest part of a question, her skin is a map of the way home, and her hips are a wishbone that won’t break. Her footprints are misplaced detour signs and her dreams are unmanned lighthouses. Her sigh is a continent creeping into the sea.
Don’t hate your body because it’s too fat or too thin, hate it because it’s a prison of flesh and its existence is meaningless.
