Dear body,

I apologise for all the insults
I made you wear like turtlenecks
and how I always wished you tum-tied.

I'm sorry for the times I said I hated you.

I apologise for all the hands I made you hold
and the stains that ensued because of them -
not on the fingers, but the tips of your heart.

I'm sorry for prostituting your lips
to boys who pretended to be lovers
but knew not how to cherish their bloom.

I apologise for teaching you pain
and forcing you to know beauty

and for not letting you develop
in your own lazy-sweet time.

I should have whispered, "You're beautiful"
a little more often and watched each nerve blush denial,
honoured each blemish that makes you awkward

because, in your insistence,
you let me learn those pride-buffing boys
are right: size doesn't matter

because, if you bulge or wither,
you are an extension still
of me.