For all the times I’ve hurt you,
That I’ve poked and prodded you,
Squeezed and cried over you.

The times I’ve pushed parts up,
And pulled parts in.

The times you weren’t enough,
For the image in my head,
Or the people on the street.

For being too big…or too small,
But, if ever there was a time,
For “it’s not you, it’s me”,
Then it’s now.

Because your nails may be chipped,
And your thighs may double when you sit,
But the lines on their sides,
Are a sign of your growth.

Just as the roots of your hair,
Left slightly too long since their last color.

Your cheeks rise wide and proud,
Anytime that you smile,
Pushing up the glasses,
I used to hate so much.

Your skin is pale, not tanned as I wanted,
Your make up always imperfectly smudged,
You bruise at the slightest touch,
But you are me.

You hold me up, you make me strong,
And you deserve more.

More than the pokes, and prods,
Than the squeezes and tears,
From me, or anyone else.

You are so much more,
Than the mirror can ever show.

You are strong, yet graceful
Both powerful and soft.
You are cute, yet sexy,
Both beautiful and unique.
You have character and a story
x and x,
And you’re mine.