The body, this body, my body
Is not an apology.
It Is not an explanation
A long
Drawn-out
Pause for consideration.
It does not wait for approval
Does not desire
Golden-tipped accolades.
It Is not a justification
Of etched road maps
Across the expanse
Of stomach and thighs.
It is not a constant explanation of
Regret and remorse
For taking up space.
It Is not a concession
Of compromises
Creating waves of regret
Crashing against the mind.
It does not accept unwelcomed
Unsolicited
Undesired expressions.
It is not available
To be spoken at
Down to
Or about with shrapnel-coated
Waste-land edged words of war.
It is merciful
Years of learning to love
All the bits
The pieces
The sags
The wrinkles.
It is time spent alone
with early morning sunrises
Late-night sunsets
Colors blending against skin.
It is compassion
Occasions of grace
Acknowledging everyday moments
Leaving past hurts to fade
Into the misty distance
Until the sharp details
Are no more.
The body, this body, my body
Is not an apology.

My body is forgiveness.

Marie Prichard is a longtime writer and educator. She lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with her wife, their two wiener dogs, and a Munchkin cat. She loves reading, writing, walking the beach, and filling her wife’s pockets with heart rocks. You can read more of her writing on Medium