I am beauty in its truest form- 

misshapen though still whole. 

My body and mind bind themselves in contradictions, 

and though she keeps me like a prison, 

in the chains of an ideal, 

I love her all the same. 

 

I am ignorant to the faults 

of the softness of my flesh. 

My form is ample and armored, 

and she protects her fragile filling as she should. 

 

This gentle jawline curves my face, 

and the textures and discrepancies of my skin 

are the splatters of a Pollock, 

and the strokes of a Remrandt. 

 

The neck I adorn with silver and marks of a lover 

is strong though not slender, 

my beauty is in utility. 

Though I detest the way the hollows of my clavicles hide, 

laden by such padded flesh, 

They are a cushioned crook for a heavy head. 

 

See my breasts, 

and how they fall in shamed teardrops, 

as if mourning the blessed burden of femininity. 

Kiss my body in tenderness 

and she will weep for your love. 

 

I fear the breadth of my chest, 

I am disgusted by the width of my arms, 

guilty of the strength of my thighs; 

yet each achieves their function in beauty- 

My temple, my wings, and my pillars. 

 

The apex of my form, 

where she is cleaved in two: 

there be diamonds and silk, the precious sought, 

Though not subject to your appraisal. 

My power is at the meeting of my thighs, 

As you’ll see from your knees. 

 

I am subjective in form and word, 

my eye for an eye of the proverbial beholder. 

Every woman before this moment is harbored here within me; 

Aphrodite in her seafoam; 

every gentle touch and lip curled in disgust. 

 

My beauty is vicious and complete- 

vengeful, jealous, all consuming. 

I am this body, and so much more- 

mind and soul entwined with muscle and bone, 

and she is beauty in its truest form.