He says that he likes me because I have a pretty mouth, and sometimes he makes me feel like I have a pretty mouth
because he kisses me like he’s never known anything better.
and I think I’m supposed to be happy,
but my tummy still hangs heavy on my body and my thighs still look huge next to his.
And I wonder if he finds my flabby upper arms pretty,
or my bulging cheeks and my wide forehead pretty.
I know he doesn’t think of me as pretty.
He only ever looks at my eyes when we’re laid together. He only ever touches me where I am hardest.
Where I am most comfortable.
And it still surprises me when he asks me if he’s pretty. I mean, sure, he’s beautiful.
There’s no question about that. It’s clear to see.
But I’ve never paid attention to his looks as a whole. Only ever his collarbones,
only ever his fingers, where he is prettiest.
Never his face, never his whole body.
I don’t think I will ever be comfortable with my whole body. But I have learned how to love my lips the way he loves them,
and I’ve learned how to love my fingers and my nonexistent collarbones the way I love his.
And I remember the times I slipped stars
under my skin, hoping that I glow as bright as they do,
and the day I realized that no light will be
brighter than the one I shine on myself.