I have lived in this body
for forty years and some months besides.
Most of that time I have spent
trying
to minimize some part of it.

While I don’t now magically
love the skin I’m in,
I am comfortable 
with its bumps and bulges.
I know the clothes that make it look good,
the foods that make it feel full,
the acts that make it feel loved.
I am also familiar with its aches and pains,
its sore muscles and stiff joints.

I know this forty-year-old body with all its
faults and flaws and functions.
But oh, this brain.
This brain is not a day over twenty-five.