Love Letter to My Body

[heres a love letter i wrote to my body for
Inner Fat Girl ]
To my body,
You bastard. You fucked up, crippled, vomit-inducing, kick-me-in-the-ass, tw/itchy, balding, heartbroken, unpredictable pain in my goddamned neck bastard. You make me cringe and weep and yell out and wish i could cut parts of you off. You confuse me, infuriate me, embarrass me, fuck with me.
But i fucking love you. Perhaps (most likely) not in the way love is commonly understood, but i love you so hard it hurts, more than the hurt you inflict on me every day; more than the burning, cramping, pounding ache you send up and down and back up my legs and back every day; i love you so intensely, no matter the ache, the tw/itch, the burning, none of it, no matter.
i love you because, despite my coffees, 30 years of alcohol poisoning i’ve only stopped since 2002, despite soaking you in pain meds and testosterone shots and greasy spoon breakfasts, too many car accidents, too many falls in streets and ditches, too many years of self-injury, my not doing enough of my stretches, not eating enough greenery, not doing so many of the things i could do to do better by you, regardless all my abuses and only incremental improvements, you are here with me. You stay. Why?
Let’s just be honest with each other, ok? This is a dysfunctional relationship, to be sure.  But i love you because you try, you maintain, you accept. You’re the one thing i can -strangely enough- count on, even if not in all the ways i’d like. You’re the one thing that is 100% fundamentally honest with me. And you are the only thing that knows every single inch of my bullshit and yet stays, kisses my head, expects better, helps me do better.
And i also love you because, despite the attacks on you by me, by a transphobic, fatphobic, queerbashing, gimp hating society, you are a thing of fucking beauty. You are something i gape at, you are something i am so thankful for, something i won’t turn my aching back on, won’t turn in for reward, won’t ever stop trying to be better to.
i love you because of the feel of you, my hair, my cunt, my beard, my tits, my big fat belly, my strong arms and weak legs, my rolls, even the uncertainties, the dysphorias, the fucking chubrub.
i love you because you turn me on, make me wet and hard and sweat, surprise me, surprise my lovers, create a canvas for artists and consensual perverts, allow me to be tattooed, pierced and flogged and punched and made love to and groped and fucked til i bleed and held down in some sleazy bathroom by equally sleazy and self-and-consent-loving queers, and because despite a long painful history of dissociation you are now present for every single gloriously hot second of it.
i love you because of the feel of you when i go to bed, you wake with me every day, you cum with me, cook with me, sing with me, bathe with me, play music with me, fuck with me, weep with me.
i love you because you give me a second chance, every single day, for which i am trying to be grateful and responsive.
i love you because you’re all i’ve got. But it’s more than that. We’re all we’ve got.
i love you because, really, while it’s complicated and yeah dysfunctional, and sometimes i don’t particularly like you, we are actually not two different entities in some abusive relationship. There is no such thing as a “mind/body split” for us. We are one endless circle of fuckery, beauty, silence, shame, orgasms, ingestion, release, movement, and i don’t want to ever give up on you willingly. Please don’t give up on me any time soon. i’m here, i’m coming, i’m working through it, i feel you.

2 thoughts on “Love Letter to My Body

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