Stand in front of the mirror
feet shoulder width apart
hands on hips;
take your biggest insecurity
and make it your superhero name.
Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
No, it’s THUNDER THIGHS
and THE CELLULITE KID
here to remind Gotham City
that beauty standards are bullshit.
Find your port in the storm.
Ignore the siren-songs
that whisper imperfections
in your sleep,
the myriad voices waiting for you
to dash yourself against the rocks—
Find something they cannot refute:
hold onto it with a white-knuckle grip,
anchor yourself there
until the storm clouds pass.
Resist the urge
to apologise for your own abundance;
the longing to feel small in someone else’s hands
is a falsehood you need to unlearn.
You are worth the space you occupy,
and leagues beyond.
that there is no such thing
as objective beauty.
Remember that Aphrodite changes
in the eye of each beholder;
that even her form is rendered
with stomach rolls
with a strong jaw
with uneven breasts.
Remember that the Venus of Willendorf
looked down upon herself
and declared it to be beautiful.
Repeat steps one to four as necessary.