I used to grow up thinking daddy's wide shoulders were the highest point of Earth.

questioning my worth as i stand here vertically challenged

i imagine me prostrating in submission to God for blessing me with daddy's broad shoulders that make me feel tall although i fall short of that.

 Short of what i was planning to reach for my height didnt reach the peak of puberty as fast as i had.

puberty had promised me liberty from this irrationalized property i was caged in.

Caged in with this rage and sin.

This sin of hatred for my skin.

this sin of pretending i was defending some love for me.

see as a child i piled and piled and cried and sighed for a victoria secret figure.

Figured i would picture me on Cover Girl magazines but as Time passed on and Rolling Stones captured People in Vogue the Health cover spoke self love.

The health cover promoted love between every curved thigh instead of allowing teenage corruppted girls wondering why.

why didnt my stomach lie as flat as hers or why i didnt look right in them mini skirts.

or why my arms would rip a tight shirt.

I read on and on and learned how my hips, these wide eight shaped truth telling hips will support instead of naturally abort an offspring.

These thighs which seemed to hold Earth's storage gave me pride for which they held me up through the toughest of times.

And i mean litteraly.

So who taught you that the value of a woman is the ratio of her waist to her hips and the cirumference of her buttocks and the volume of her lips?

Your math is dangerously wrong.

a woman's value is nothing less than infinite.