This is my body:

Five feet, seven inches
One hundred and thirty pounds of flesh
Values on a scale, but not one that determines my worth.
Just facts.

White skin. 
Brown hair, 
everywhere.

The surface is unmanicured.
It has rolls and bumps and scars
Flab and sag in places it didn’t use to.
And white stitches on my hips
From stretching far beyond my limits
Which I often do.
How remarkable is that?

My hands are callused.
Unwomanly, perhaps, but another reminder of my strength
I am stronger than I think I am
And more fragile, too.

My gut gently curves.
And though the muscles of my core are tight you can’t see them because they hide under layers of cake and wine and sweet times spent with people I love, sharing meals and laughter.

I am made of trillions of cells.
Minuscule, but miraculous
Constantly healing the deepest wounds
Restoring my blood and bones, heart and soul
Making them whole,
Perfect.

I live here
After 30 years the mortgage is paid off.
I finally own my body.
I owe nothing
To anyone
And I am finally home.