I see women. 

I see thunder thighs 

and freckles, 

muffin tops, 

rib cages, 

a birth mark that covers the length of her collar bone 

and the scar that never healed. 

I see her regret and her suffering; 

and admiration, 

and gratitude. 

I asked my friends to tell each other three things they loved about one another. 

I love her eyes. 

I love the way her hands are always covered in ink 

I love her stupid jokes. 

Turn in. 

Now imagine you sitting across the table. 

Look at yourself. 

See the way your hair outlines your face and see the way your eyes shine curiosity. 

I told them to think about everything someone else sees when they look at you, 

not the way your reflection stares blankly back at you. 

You see pain and lines marking every heartache you've been through. 

You see how lack of sleep leaves dark moons under your starlit eyes. 

You see weight. 

You see silhouettes. 

Everybody else sees the way your hands are like a stone sculpture that's lived through the ages 

The artwork that has made it through so much 

Webster's dictionary should have this definition of beauty. 

I see her beauty 

I see love 

I see a future of women who respect themselves as much as they adore and admire each other. 

Women smuggle days of confidence in their sleeves so we might be able to spread them to ones who can't stand to see their mirror self in a store window.

We won't see thunder thighs we will see sculpted legs that have taken every step needed to make it to this place here and now. 

No more self hatred. No more cowardice.