TW: Self harm, fat phobia, racism

I write a letter to my body.
I say, “I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner.”
This is an apology to my skeleton and its skin,
every joint, every pound, every hair on my head.
I say, “I’m sorry for criticizing you,
for not being gentle,
for not respecting you;
as if we haven’t been together for 25 years,
as if you haven’t felt my pain; every heart break,
all the guilt, the sorrow and the shame.
I took it out on you
as if you haven’t fought for me
in all the battles I have faced,
as if you aren’t the temple
I should have worshiped at every single day.
I didn’t love you
when that’s all you really needed from me.”
My letter is longer than I thought it’d be
but I’ve made so many mistakes.
You deserve a real apology.
I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner.
I say, “I never should have considered your shape a flaw,
your color a curse,
your skin too damaged.
The marks stretched across your body like tiger stripes,
they are beautiful.
I’m sorry I made you cry
at the thought of someone seeing them.
You should wear them like a badge.
They say this body has learned to adapt.
They match your mother’s and your best friend’s.
You don’t have to be ashamed of them.
I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner.
I caked your skin in cover-up to hide every blemish
but when that wasn’t enough I asked you to hide instead.
It started when you were only 9.
The stress took such a toll on you.
It took me 10 more years
before I let the sun touch your naked face,
your bare shoulders.
I should have never kept that warmth from you.
Now I only compare your scars to paint
being splattered across the canvas of your body.
You are a work of art.
I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner.
I’m sorry for every time I reminded someone
of your father’s pale German, Irish skin
asking them to look past the color
your mother passed down to you.
I wanted you to always be labeled as mixed,
diluted, not completely one of her people.
I wanted you to be more acceptable, more relatable
in your small minded town
where people mostly look the same;
mostly nothing like you.
I just wanted you to feel wanted.
I wanted you to feel like you belonged.
I was looking for approval from the wrong people.
They were showing me whiteness was the norm,
the preferred, the privileged.
I wanted you to be less colorful,
but now I promise to admire
the way your skin looks like sand in the wintertime.
I know the ocean feels like home.
I think it’s only right you look like you belong there.
In the summer light you are a golden shade of brown.
It is my new favorite color.
It looks like the palm tree trunks that were scattered across
the backyard of your childhood home.
It’s the same shade as Lady, the dog you got when you were 4.
She was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen.
It’s the way your mother likes her coffee.
I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner.
You deserve to take up space
regardless of how much you weigh.
Not fitting the mold
does not mean you belong here any less.
They say it’s what’s on the inside that counts
and that is true
but your body does not need to be erased,
put aside, forgotten, a secret, displaced.
Your thighs are almost always touching one another
like your fingers in a fist,
you are stronger than I gave you credit for.
You carried on even when I introduced you to shame.
I should have explained
that fat is just a descriptor;
it is a fact, not an insult.
Whether other people agree or not,
whether other people like it or not.
That word will no longer be a weapon used against you.
You are 5’8, you have a small gap in your front teeth,
you have brown eyes,
you are fat.
It is not a label for others to read
to decide if they want you or not.
It’s just another thing about you
like your love for pineapple on pizza,
your right-handedness, your job title.
I am sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner.
I should apologize every day for harming you.
I clawed at your flesh when I was scared
like a cat being thrown into a lake.
I left behind scars laid out like blueprints.
They explain how to punish yourself
for a crime you did not commit.
Forgive me for setting you up.
When I was embarrassed of the marks
I was leaving behind on your skin
I had you lie in bed until your bones ached.
I pulled your hair, I bruised your knuckles on the floor,
I screamed into your pillow at the top of my lungs
until your throat was sore.
I never should have touched you
when I was angry or afraid.
I thought torturing you might give me some answers.
I was wrong.
I was wrong about all of it,
but I’m ready to make things right.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that sooner.”