Dear Body,

Dear Body,

It's been a long time coming for me to sit down and write this post for you. Quite frankly, you scare me and you'll have to excuse the fact that I had to take a shot for luck before I could stand and face you. Down the hatch, to the page.

You're beautiful. You are wanted. You are loved. You are even loved and wanted by the one person who matters most: me. I love you. I want you. I am so sorry that at times I make you feel unappreciated or low, but I am genuinely in love with you. All that you are.

Dear Hands,

I love the way you frame these keys. I love how hard you are working as I stumble through these words. I love your sturdy nails that grow to a perfect half-moon crescent. I love to look at you and the way you move and flow so gracefully. Your knuckles don't crack and I truly appreciate that as you know how much I hate that sound. I love your pyramid birthmark perched so gently on my right hand, pointed towards my fingertip. You've convinced me that I am clearly an Egyptian Goddess reincarnated. Thank you for knowing just where to touch and hold me and thank you for being so delicate and soft. Hands are my favorite part of the body on others and I am so grateful that I lucked out with a pair as beautiful as you. I promise I'll be better about lotion.

Dear Wrists,

I am so sorry. I am sorry I left small kisses from the razor I was once desperate enough to use. You have to know I did not mean to scar you. I only meant to wake myself up, remind myself of the fire in my deep red blood. But you have taken that scar and embroidered it softly into my skin, creating a stitch that constantly reminds me of how hard you fought to hold me together. And I love my Gatsby tattoo. It reminds me of the great words that have come before me that hold up my own. It reminds me of the overpowering love can be and where it can drive a man. It reminds me of beauty and hope and loss. Thank you for your grace under pressure.

Dear Arms,

I know that I need to tone your biceps, but you are lovely and lean nonetheless. You aren't the strongest but you do give some killer hugs. And I love that you hold my second tattoo, a reminder set between the mirror of my two scars. A message that we made it on the other side unscathed. I wish you were a bit stronger so I would feel safer, but you are still great.

Dear Chest,

I love your collar bone. I feel so sexy when it is on display. I feel like a ballerina and you inspire me to stand up straighter to show you off more. I love your breasts. They hang perfectly and fit perfectly in my hands. Yes, you are probably home to a favorite feature of mine, and a few others, but I'm proud of you. My chest makes me feel like a woman and feeling like a woman makes me proud. I probably like looking at you more than the general public (this fact is contestable, eyyyoooo)

Dear Waist,

You are so tiny and I love that I can wrap my arms completely around you and hold you together. You grab me that hourglass frame that I always envied so much growing up. Keep up the good work.

Dear Stomach,

Sorry for all of the pizza and late night burritos, but also I'm not sorry at all because we both know that I have never ONCE felt guilty about eating four burritos in one sitting. But it is my fault for making you feel ashamed for your size. I suppose that I'm growing on your little pooch. We'll get toned this summer and when we do, it will be in a healthy way. (Speaking of which, I'm sorry for trying to convince you to be anorexic in the seventh grade. Those were miserable times, but now we can both work on not paying attention to societal standards and do whatever makes us feel good and strong and healthy.)

Dear Hips,

...........It's you I'm most scared of. Scared to face what has always been my greatest insecurity. Your ass is too big from the side, you have love handles, you are too much for how small I am. But. Lately I am seeing more from you. I love what you add to my shape. I am so happy to have curves strong enough to part an ocean. And you are an essential part of that plan and the hourglass I love so much. You have my promise that I will keep trying to see the best in you. Because in the end, you are comfortable and you are mine.


Dear Legs,

Thank you so much for being so strong. All of those years of Irish dancing really left your calves strong and toned. I wish your feet wouldn't get so sore from running but I would like to start slowly toward the goal of running. I know, I'm not excited about it either but if anyone can carry me over that finish line, it's you. (probably... I mean, a car would do much of the same thing. Or a piggy back ride)

Dear Head/Face,

Another spot of contention. I'm sorry for being so critical of you. And for trying to force you into changing. ALSO for waxing your eyebrows. Sorry, but on a much more real level, not sorry. I like your dark eyes, they are mysterious and they look serious. And seriously well framed by my eyebrows, which pop so nicely. Thank you for being my selfie secret weapon. And thank you for the best hair ever.

Dear Body,

Part of the reason I am so insecure about you is because people seem to believe that if you openly love your body, you must be vain and pompous. People seem to think that by loving myself and being able to take a compliment without doubting it later will make me a terrible person. I do not want to be viewed as arrogant. Or overly confident. Plus there is that risk that as soon as I appear confident, I'll get rejected or laughed at by being confident about something ugly. That I'll get rejected because as it turns out, I'm not pretty after all.

But I think I am pretty. And I think that fear is pretty dumb. I think I am powerful, and a remarkable collection of all of the most lovely and horrible and neurotic atoms around. If someone is rejecting you, it is because of them. NOT US. We are so beautiful and strong. And fucking resilient. You have been hit and hurt and violated and you still perform and support me. You have carried me to so many amazing places. Body positivity should be admired, not punished or questioned. Women's bodies are always under scrutiny. But do not let society, or me, devalue you. I love you and I will be better at showing it telling you more often.

Body shaming must stop on every level. Thank you for letting me be vulnerable and hopefully inspire more love for myself. And for more people to love themselves.

I love you and I like you. Stay sexy.

Emma Jane Phelps

Let's be open to nature like this more.

bleeding out

Feel the pinprick in your heart,
right in the left ventricle. The sweet spot.
Right where he tattooed his fingerprints,
unspooling those swirls and winding them
down your arteries and nerve endings
until they were clouded in cotton candy
films of blood.

Feel the hole in your heart,
smaller than a needle tip begin to grow,
widening very slowly with every
shared word and photo, every fantasy
and dreamscape you share late at night,
picturing him thinking of you
with just as much hunger.

Feel the blood leave your heart,
cascading and dripping over your bones,
dyeing them like wine on carpet.
Dark red like his lips and the tongue
that lives inside his mouth-
aching for a vacation inside
of your mouth.

With no blood in your heart,
all of it pooling in your stomach and
the quivering area right below your
abdomen, try to breathe normally.
Wait for the blood to flow to your
extremities and to taste it in your mouth
instead of tasting him.

via *

the daisies

I shut the light off and bathed in the dark. I let the black velvet water come to nearly the top of the tub until only my neck and head were left uncovered. The music that was playing embraced me like you never did, seeping down through the water and sliding across my skin. It was like an underwater cathedral in my darkened tub and my body was the altar, finally learning to praise itself again.

When the humidity finally loosened my cough, I coughed up the daisies you planted carelessly along my heart. They were bright and sick and smelt like lies. After all of this, I have learned something after all. Don't trust the daisies; they keep poison in pretty packages.

via *

constructing the interstate

the body was made of pure cement.
each rib glued together.
thumb tacks lining the mortar between each nerve.
the hair was the hardest to pin down.
it was wild, covering the
body's face and obscuring the leakage
pouring from the blank spaces
where manhole covers were still needed.
holes for men to climb down into
the sewage lined heart,
the shit infested wasteland constantly
dumped on by countless men before.
the hair was the problem.
it made the body seem alive.
the hair must burn.
the body must be broken down
again. jackhammered.
traffic backed up.
the body reopened with each passing semi,
questioned if there was a reason
for this destruction at all.