My thigh is creamy and very white. Splattered with pinkish, brownish dots that must be my hair follicles. At least twenty very obviously freckles or maybe moles are interspersed with probably a hundred baby pecks of light brown. My hair is short, nicked by a razor a least a week ago. I'm soft to the touch, although the hair prickles. And if I grab her I can get almost an inch of thick grip between my thumb and fingers that jiggles into place for a few seconds after I release it. I think about my thighs every single day. About their girth, about how the world sees them as I strut down the street in a skirt, as I dance, as I run in Carolina. Do they think cellulite, fat, sexiness, normality? Do my thighs draw attention? Do they please your eyes? Do they hurt your eyes? My relationship with my thighs consists more in gauging the petty relationship between my thighs and you. I'm never satisfied with that relationship. You should always be more pleased, I scold.
And then today, I looked at you, at me, and I love you, just because I can. Because I can choose to love you or to scold you. Didn't I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder? And my eyes they streamed tears because they beheld the beauty and the power to behold. And the insanity of relinquishing this power, of living in fear, in self-loathing, just because these eyes can't see what they have the power to see.
I look at my thighs and I see them as my own. My own to love or despise, and though you may love them or despise them, never yours. I want to love mine. Because loving them makes me cry, makes me feel, inspires me. Because when I love them I know I want to love them. And when I hate them I can't even know that I know nothing at all.