Arms

My arms are decorated with freckles. Scars tell stories of childhood mishaps, stories of adult survival. One scar is a gift from a boy who threw a fire ant on me. One scar is a gift from a cat that did not wish to be bathed.

My arms end in a reflection of my mother's hands. When I look at them, I see her, though her hands were thinner and more worn. It's always bittersweet because while I love the memory of her, I hate the memory of how much she disliked my softness. Perhaps this is why my palms are so different. My palm that reflects my outside fate tells one story. The palm that reflects my inside love for myself tells a better one.

My fingernails vex me as much as my hair often does. They're often jagged and uneven, but when I paint them, they certainly display both my skill and personality.

I have a lily on my left hand and I love it every time I look at it. Right now it runs parallel to a cat scratch from the cat who has recently decided to love me.

Take a moment. Look at yourself. Know yourself. Your body is yours. Don't focus on the marks and imperfections as being bad, consider them as your story, as your uniqueness, as part of what makes you you.