My body is mine. My body is mine to take care of, my body is mine to carry, my body is mine to deteriorate. Somewhere along the way, my body, as well as other female-presenting people’s around me, became everyone else’s. It became an object. It became a point of critique, observation, appreciation, and value. My body became yours — or was it born that way?

Socially, my body stands as my most valuable asset. Forget my passions, my energy, my knowledge, my empathy. As long as I can strut my stuff, I am worthy of attention.

Powerfully, my body can get me what I want. It is pride, it convinces, and it gets me that extra drink at the bar.

Sexually, it belonged to anyone but me. It was an object of satisfaction. It was an object that could be pulled apart, admired, used, and thrown away.

My body became my target of self-critique. Never good enough, needed to be tweaked, pulled, and shrunk. It needed to be thin, but not too thin, strong, but not too strong, and curvy, but only in the right places.

My body became my punching bag. Scratches, cuts, bruises, all proved that it could be used and condemned, because it was always at fault.

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My body is mine. My body is mine to take care of, my body is mine to carry, my body is mine to deteriorate. My body is mine to protect, my body is my home. My body proves to me that I can do anything. My body does what I need it to do and lets me do whatever I want. My body is the number one love of my life, because it houses my brain, my heart, and my energy. My body is strong, powerful and none of your fucking business.