I stared at myself.
Took myself in…it was me.
The one without the marks, the printed lines
The me from years before
I no longer remember.
What was smooth, firm, taut
Couldn’t have felt the same,
Textured now at every inch.
The nose was smaller once, just like my mother’s.
I couldn’t be wrong, my sister thinks so too.
Not much of a liar, but who am I to judge?
There is a memory etched somewhere of a boy staring at me
Wondering how tiny it was
My waist, it was a 24.
The sharp curves rounded now,
Even rocks erode with time.
A faint memory of breasts that had a mind of their own,
Refusing to budge or be pushed around.
Now with age they have wisened up too,
Not stubborn as they were, they adjust as I wish them to.
And the stitch that marks my vagina
Marks my life.
How would I be anything without it?
And in all that had changed, somethings stayed
The face that spoke my mind,
Eyes that tear up at news good or bad,
The pouty lips I had been forced to purse all my childhood
And a smile that could declare me pretty despite it all.  

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