By Jenna

There’s a light inside me that I’ve had to fight for. Paid more than my share for that electric bill. My body seizes up, works against me. Still learning to respect it. Still mentally quite ill.

I don’t love this body of mine. It’s aging and its scarred and it has no tone. But I decide who sees it now, never have to tighten, to pretend, to smile or moan.

I don’t look in the mirror and see a temptress pouting back. But I don’t worry about a hair or fifty I might have forgotten to wax.

My breasts point down, have to squash them in my shirt. They don’t sting from being whipped though. No evidence they’ve been hurt.

Never a dull moment when men pay to use your parts. I’m learning to live a different life. Embrace the normal, the peace, my heart.

Tattoos cover the space, the flesh that has doubled since those men had their fill. This body is mine now. Imperfect, tired, been to hell and survived this. I will learn to treat you right body, if it’s the last thing I do. We can do it, rising, thriving, this time we won’t miss.