It’s a hundred million things but it is not hate. It is fire, bright and gold, it is the color of the sky, it is the heart-warming smile offered by a stranger, it is hope on a grey day and a dark night. It is not ugly, it is not flawed, it is the body of all the women who’ve come before me. Those who shouted their hatred are blinded by fear, unaware of the power of standing for the truth of what’s yours. It is theirs too, and I cannot truly hate what isn’t mine, it was given to me through love and grace. It was made perfect with all the curves and bumps. It was made to breathe and live. My body represents more than what I can ever be, so I refuse to stand in front of the mirror and whisper poison filled words that sting my skin over and over again, I refuse to look at others and think mine is less. I think they are beautiful, and that is as far as I will go because what is theirs is mine too. We are branches of a tree, roots spread out far beneath the ground, too far to think we’re alike but too close to think different. My body is a revolution, something that spun through histories of my ancestors, women that lived through the hardships and survived enough for the world to go on and lead to me. For them, I cannot sit and cry and starve my body of food and twist and turn when the pangs of hunger return, I cannot silence the cries with water, and I refuse to listen to the mind conditioned by the world that tells me that my body is less, something of imperfection because it doesn’t fit a mold created by someone whose only profit is my pain. My body is stitched from strength and power, magic and love. With every new breath that I take, I can hear them returning, standing, lining behind me and filling me with love, giving me strength to be who I was. My body was there before me and it will be there after me. It fits me, and it does not matter what others believe is true or right, because ‘I’ know it as ‘we’ and what’s ours is beyond beauty, it is a power beyond strength; love.