Ode to My Flaws
For the crooked row
of teeth under my baby gap that
often makes a small whistling sound.
For the tangled bush of conditioner and castor oil
on my head that I’m dreading to pick.
Each rejuvenated curl reminds me
to never step foot in a hair salon where the hot combs are
waiting to burn my edges off.
For the feet I got
from my father.
I get scared whenever
I see a crack in my heel.
I’m reminded of why he wore socks most of the time.
My sunburn went away years ago but each summer
reminds me of why I shouldn’t wear flats with straps in the middle.
For the body I embrace when I’m preparing for my day.
For the curves that appear in the mirror.
How I go from embracing my beauty to pointing out every insecurity I stow away.
For the stomach that stays hidden in the biggest of sweaters.
I can only love it when I sit up straight.
The rolls go back into hiding.
I’m waiting for the day to be over in order for them
to show themselves as I strip out of their mask.
For each stroke of foundation that doubles as a safe haven
from judgment.
My face has dark spots around my nose, which is scrubbed with black soap until its smooth surface stares back at me.
I sit up at night
Wondering why it took 18 years
to appreciate each jagged piece to the
puzzle that makes me who I am.
For my brain that forces my eyes to be in contempt of
The scars I carry
Physically and emotionally.
The disgust I once felt for the color
and texture of my skin.
Raw, black beauty. What I find
In my reflection but never did
Value until I saw the beauty in my complexion.
For the black girls that learn to learn to love themselves so later in life.
The novelty in the “appreciation” this world has for us is enough for me to wear my hair higher and display my scars to the ones who are disgusted by it.