with wild courage.

i am not your words,
i am my own.
i am writing a story of grace and fire,
hope rising.
i am a flower,
i am a tree, rooted in my worth,
and i do not bend when the rains come,
i don’t bow to the wind.
i stand,
tall and graceful,
with wild courage.

pretty.

you say that when i’m skinny
i’ll be pretty,
but don’t you see that now
i smile easily,
and my eyes look like the stars?
don’t you see that my laughter
sounds like a song,
and my feet are lighter
and nothing weighs me down?
you say i will be pretty,
but don’t you see that i already am,
that i always have been?
don’t you see i am much more than
pretty,
that i am someone with dreams,
with hope and light?