Self Love Is Never A Bad Thing

As a woman, I can only exist as myself.

I forget that this is mine, like all mine. It's not like I see it often. 

Today as I took my favorite body parts into account, taking photos, rubbing in the lotions slowly and deliberately, I realized I take these body parts for granted.

My shoulders, breasts, stomach, ass, thighs, I really don't show them the appreciation they deserve.
these are the parts that have contributed to my claim to womanhood. These are the parts that everyone else sees and appreciates, these are body parts other women pay their souls to achieve, be it by augmentation or voodoo magic waist bands.

Oh but, I am not perfect, and I remind myself of this, to the point that I have taken my own beauty for granted. I cannot simply see what others see, because they only see what is the end result, but never what was the journey.

Everyday I see my brothers hailing the sexiest of the sexiest, the women who represent the claim that "Black women" are perfect.

Most of these women look like they popped out of ghetto barbie catalogs and got smacked with a dose of Daddy Big Buck's right to the ass...

They shake, they "twerk" (not a motherfucker ask rasshole me to twerk I will digitally throat punch the ever living RASSHOLE outta you for that shit. I am Bajan, I do NOT fucking TWERK!) They are deemed the "Baddest" and they are loved and admired by all far and wide.

This is me, flaws and everything.

Then come us humble girls, us normal women, who can't pay anyone to suck off our body fat, who have cellulite over the thickness of our thighs (in my case, because when I go down by 40 lbs, the appearance of cellulite ceases to exist) or who can't pay anyone to inject silicone to widen our hips, or lift our tits, who are struggling against the tide, because our men, our beloved men, think we should be simple, plain, and content to be cheated on by them in thought and deed as they shun our love for ourselves, but embrace the sexier plastic models and their unconditional implied love of selves.

We should be modest, because we are imperfect or something, which never flies well with me, I worked hard for this body, carried children, lost and gained weight unpleasantly, gave up favorite pairs of jeans that made me feel complete because of widening hips and you trying to tell me I cannot or should not be in love with myself? Jokes. Yet in the same breath, you would tell me most vulgarly how you would love to leave your seed swimming at the apex of my thighs, the same thighs you have condemned as unworthy of being shown.

Yes, I own a Panda fluffy hat/mitten combo!

I was once told by a guy (who once pleaded with me to let him cuddle me, and I declined several offers of his, after realizing that his affection to me only included him satisfying the part of him that needed to feel like he'd conquered some great intellectual, sexual dime, but not my own feelings or desires), that I clearly hate myself, and all men can see it, that's why I "don't have a man" (despite having 3 of 'em at the time, I don't do the social media advertisement slots with photographic evidence of my relationships, whether you believe they exist isn't my problem- so he ran with whatever). His conclusion of my self hate came according to my consistent evidence of posting sexy pics of myself, for men's approval.

I remember why I'd begun posting those images of myself, they were my testament of acceptance. They were me, loving me, and sharing my love of me with others.

Today, his words came back to me, and I felt immediate remorse, for not recently showing my own body more love and adoration for it being exactly what I'd wanted it to be.

Make no mistake, as a woman, I can only exist as myself, and I refuse to make any apology for it, except to myself, all of her, for not loving me, and taking me for granted.