I hadn’t realized how wearing modest clothing was like
Wearing male judgment right next to my skin.
Boobs too big, or too small, with stretch marks on them,
Faded scars on my stomach, my back, my elbows and shins.
Sagging skin on my thighs and my hips,
Fat in those little wings under my bra straps.
This is what’s wrong with you, and this.
This is too much flesh. This is too little.
This is ugly. This is scandalous.
This is you being vain. This is you being made humble.
This is your face, asymmetrical,
Your jaw too strong and masculine,
Your skin too tanned and pocked.
This is your ass, too big, your hips, too wide.
Until I took off male judgment,
And found I liked the touch of my bare flesh,
Hand to belly, leg to leg, neck to chest.
I never knew I’d hated myself so much,
Never knew that modesty was code for hatred,
Never knew that humility was code for disgust.
And now I am in love with myself,
All the flaws and sagging, jiggling parts,
That were made to be me.
