Most artists imagine their audience as they create. I envision a woman’s fingers gliding across the pages of my book while I write this collection. She is a woman like me—unstitched by life’s trials, then sewn back together by her own hands, pain as her thread.
This week, I wrote about desire, learning how to hold it without fear. That’s when I noticed I hadn’t had a cookie or a piece of cake in nearly a year. Years of discipline had hardened into deprivation, and my body had learned to override its wanting to be “good.”
Good was controlling my weight so it didn’t offend others.
Good was practicing restraint at all times.
Good was denying myself and calling it self-control.
As the piece unfolded, I spoke with a man who told me his marriage ended because his ex-wife wouldn’t fall in line under his leadership. Later, he told me I wasn’t his type physically.
For a moment, his words hovered over my chest. I thought about the years I starved, the years I stood in the mirror hating my reflection. Then I thought about the permission slips I’d handed myself these past few months. After a devastating breakup last year, I had finally learned to sip from the overflow of my own cup.
I brushed his words over my shoulder and laughed.
The cellulite on my thighs and the stretch marks across my hips had been earned—war wounds of time. Their beauty was undeniable.
Restraint never won me any prizes. Desire makes me whole again.
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