my body, your home

I am staring into your little face as you sleep. Sleep doesn’t come easily to you—you’re like me in that way. But something about being close to my body, latched to my skin brings you enough comfort to rest.

How can something I have hated and despised so much and so often bring so much peace and comfort to another?

I have felt many things about my body of the years.

It grew so fast, matured much quicker than those around me. It has been an embarrassment, a shameful thing.

I have been proud of this body. It grew you and sustained you for forty long weeks. It has nourished you, providing all the nutrients you need to grow and thrive, for five months.

But as the months since your arrival have passed, I’ve felt the familiar hatred creep in.  My waist too big, my breasts too full, my hair falling out in handfuls.

And yet this body of mine is your home.

I have hated my body; this body makes you feel safe.

I have hidden my body; this body has made you thrive.

It has kept you warm, given you peace. It is now yours as much as it is mine.

You’ll be awake soon. You’ll smile and reach your hands toward my face, rest your forehead on my chest. I’ll hold you close with the strength of this body, your home.