Every body tells a story.
My body is 51.
It has known lovers, given pleasure, experienced pain, given birth, lost a life that never got to live, and is a barometer for my emotions and finances.
I’ve loved it and abused it.
Nurtured it and tortured it.
I need to love it fully. Take care of it as if it were a child I loved.
My body doesn’t please me at the moment.
I don’t like to see it in the mirror too often.
It has been stretched out and not toned. It has lasted me through all of the shit I’ve put in it and done to it.
The scars on it have memories and no amount of time can erase them.
The stretch marks like little screams scratched forever into my flesh.
I love my body though I don’t like it. I’ll make it better to help make it last a bit longer. I just got my car out of the shop after an expensive repair job. I hadn't cared for it enough and it was on the verge of going past the point of no return.
My body is my vehicle. There are a lot more miles left on it, but I need to be a much better owner. Do the maintenance work daily so it doesn't catch on fire and have to be scraped.
