The Revolution Starts in the Mirror

There's a rebellion brewing in my bathroom mirror—

me, learning to love the geography of my face

while the world keeps trying to sell me

newer, better versions of myself.

This is how revolution begins:

with small acts of radical acceptance.

I collect their opinions like fallen leaves,

watch them pile up at my feet,

beautiful in their own way, but dead

and no longer feeding my roots.

The wind can have them.

My body is a democracy of cells

voting yes to existence

despite the constant propaganda

of magazine covers and sideways glances.

Let them whisper. My bones know

their own worth.

Remember: they called the first flowers weeds

until someone was brave enough

to make them into bouquets.

I'm done asking permission

to bloom in my own soil.

Some nights I practice saying my name

like it's a love poem,

even when their voices echo in my head

like stones dropped in an empty well.

The echo may last,

but I'm learning to drop roses after it.

They say I'm too much—

too loud, too soft, too sharp, too round.

I say: have you seen the ocean lately?

It doesn't apologize for its depths

or its shallows, its storms

or its silence.

So let them talk.

I'm building a home in my own skin,

hanging pictures of my accomplishments

on the walls of my ribcage,

painting my mistakes in gold leaf

because even they brought me here.

This is how you love yourself

in spite of:

You plant your feet like trees

and grow anyway.

Let them call it stubbornness.

We'll call it survival.

And when they ask why I insist

on taking up so much space

with this wild, untamed joy,

I'll point to the sky and say:

Have you ever seen a sunset

try to make itself smaller?