This thought has been knocking at the base of my nails, impatiently waiting for ink to scratch on paper and release it from the cell block of my mind.
I find power in my body, in the way it can command attention- embody the most primal aspect of my strength.
We are taught to cover ourselves, to be ashamed.
This flesh is the truest sense of the womanhood that I own, my creation, my claim.
My body is not a manifestation of my worth, but an expression of my self-love.
Whether it be beneath overflowing shapelessness or revealing jersey, this body is my own.
I do not cower under the fear of your judgement or discomfort- I use it to my advantage.
The curve of my breast, the supple swell of milky soft, dimpled skin crashing together into the cavern of sex at the center of my chest is not a branded stamp screaming WHORE, or a reality that must be shrouded from the eyes of the innocent and the innocent-less. My body does not exist for you and your judgement, fear, or perversion. I use your twisted understanding to sow the dirt and fields that nourish the source of my beauty, everlasting and pure.
I am goddess, I am goodness, I am whole.
Save your hurried glance and stabbing stares for the meek, the lost, the misled, the scared. Your gaze holds nothing more than pupils swimming in pools of thought- I color them with my being.
Your gaze is what I make of it.
My body is my temple. This worship does not start at the altar.