Do you like your flesh?
You wear it every day; it stretches over bones, molds to muscle, folds when you sit, creases when you smile. It warms in the sun; prickles in the cold. It bleeds when it’s torn– heals when it’s hurt, but do you like it?
Your hands– look at them. Spread your fingers; watch the skin pull tight over knuckles, veins shifting beneath the surface like whispers. Do they feel like yours? Have they always? Or have they only ever been something you were given– something you never asked for, never designed– just inherited?
Your face– oh, that’s a good one. The part of you that matters most– or so you’ve been told. The thing others see before they know you; the thing they judge before you speak. Run your fingers over it; feel the dips, the ridges– the way the skin changes from forehead to cheek to chin– do you think the maker of it all got bored halfway through? Do you like it? Or do you only tolerate it– because you have no other choice?
The mirror helps, doesn’t it? Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it only confirms what you already know; maybe it tells you the same story every time– this is you, this is all you are, this is all you’ll ever be. Yet, when the light shifts– when the angle changes– when the day is kinder– you swear you see someone else. Someone almost beautiful, almost worthy; almost.
Your flesh holds you together; keeps the blood inside– keeps the organs from tumbling out– keeps the world from seeing what you’re really made of. It does its job well; but does it do enough? Is it enough?
You’ve thought about it– changing it, haven’t you? The possibilities whisper in the back of your mind, sliding in through cracks you pretend aren’t there. If the nose were different; if the waist were smaller; if the skin were smoother. The if, if, if, but then– would it be yours? Would it feel any more like you than it does now?
There are people who claim to love their flesh– you’ve seen them. They walk without hesitation; speak without doubt– exist without question. Have you ever met someone who truly– fully, without hesitation, adored the body they were given? Or is everyone pretending– just a little? Just enough to live?
Your flesh ages; it sags, it scars– it betrays you in ways you never agreed to. It shows your history in ways you wish it wouldn’t. Still, it stays– no matter how much you resent it, no matter how much you wish it were different– it stays. Loyal, unyielding– yours.
Do you like your flesh?
