Us.

Us.

Almost every day, I’m critical of women. A specific woman.

I dodge thoughts at every turn that her body is too soft, she has a hearing loss she doesn’t talk about, and can’t drive for shit.
And it’s someone I love. It’s me.
But you and I know it’s not just me.
It’s every woman.
It’s you.

It’s the plain girl in the grocery checkout line who looks up only once, just long enough to catch the blue hot creativity that sparks off her like wildfire.
It’s the physically challenged woman that won’t let me help her up the stairs, so I wait around the corner, watching. When she gets to the top of the stairs, I whisper silent words of apology that fall with tears of raw admiration.
I don’t tell her because I should have known.

It’s the single mom of three that left an abusive relationship and now silently connects the worn silver dimes and nickels and crumpled dollars we leave on the table, end to end, into a tangible future.

In the words of the modern poet, Pink: “Don’t think for a second you’re not fucking perfect.”

Next time you’re in front of a mirror, or someone puts you there, remember that.
Every experience made you what you are now. Fucking perfect.

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