woman,

how many ways can you spell ‘mistake?’
how many ways can you tongue
a sore insult in your mouth
before you learn to spit it out,
and replace it with loving-kindness?
i hope you can look in the mirror
and realize you’re more
than a sum of mistakes.
you are not a collection of defects.
you are not the pain
of destructive explosion;
you’re the ecstasy
of discovering new ways
to spell ‘love.’
you hold napalm
in your palms,
and i hope you shape
it into your own body,
and incite a revolution
of motion in your insides.
a movement. a choreography
of acceptance
of self.
i’ve felt it, too

 

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