My hair is the same color as the season I was born from,
and my eyes mirrors the cloudy skies with its own fierce waves
that invites you in and carries you away
pushed and pressed under the rolling water as the storm crashes on above you
and the strikes of lightning that hit the ground and spread under our feet shape my veins
the intersecting highways of purple and blue that shows through the thin stretches of my pale skin
carrying my blood and the electricity pumping through my wrists
but I am none of those things.
my body is not a tree or a sea or a storm
and even if the bruises flourishing across my knuckles
could be mistaken for the galaxies of stars we’re all made from
I am not a galaxy
I do not have to compare my body to something beautiful,
it already is.
the lines on my palms do not have to be compared to the veins of leaves for the them to be traceable
the gap between my teeth does not have to look like the view of the grand canyon for it to be breathtaking
the freckles scattered across my shoulders and eyelids may resemble constellations dotting the night sky
but they are not stars
my body is beautiful
not because it looks like something beautiful-
my body is beautiful because it’s mine.