I never realized my thighs
milky white; were never supposed
to touch.
I remember sitting in a dingy building,
in a struggling camp of kids and
captors, and a girl, in an orange t-shirt,
showing her stomach off.
I wasn’t too young to feel insecure.
Slender, my fingers never were
and silent, will I always be, but
a voice has slinked in, unyielding,
blaming body parts and genes.
I always felt out of place,
unfeminine and pale,
and even though I learned
not to be afraid to wear shorts,
My thighs still touch, and my
curves still evolve, and
I really don’t mind anymore.
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