These are my arms.

I know they're not much to look at. Skinny wrists, awkward elbows. Built for lifting, gesturing, and forever knocking over cups FULL of tea.

Moving boxes, carrying textbooks, waving madly whenever I tell a story.

Clenched in tight right angles across my chest whenever I feel I am too small for the company I am surrounded by.

Smooth, white.

Unmarked by the tatoos I have dreamt and drawn but will never imprint upon my skin.

Forever reaching out, reaching up.

When I was little I developed the habit of waving at my parents and saying "hold you" whenever I wanted to be picked up. 

I'd like to say that I've grown up since then,

But I'm not sure I have.

These are my arms

Stretching out to enfold the ones I love

And remind them that they are beautiful.