If I had ample breasts
would I love myself more
Would I find the lone freckle
on my skin
and call it an abomination?
Would I spritz my hair with
a scented, glitter mist
and dab perfume on all the places
that irrefutably say
that I am a sack of breathing bones
stitched together in a dress?
Would I unravel the threads
one by one until
I stood there naked and motionless
like a vintage
Would you want me all the time
because I’m beautiful,
or not at all because I’d know it?
Would I still cringe when the warmth
Would I still cry when I cried out?
Michelle K., You Are Enough (via spinals)
Rosie Scanlan, “On Missing Them” (via synthetic-synaesthesia)
Gary Provost (via tuongexists)