I often wonder how it must feel to be content in oneself.

Not happy or joyful, but at peace.

To love yourself. Completely. Absolutely.

A love that consumes you from the inside out. A love that radiates from your deepest abyss onto the surface of your skin.

A love that is unfettered to European beauty standards. A love that is not concerned with others’ perception.

A love that just is.




Unencumbered by the weight of the voices.

Unburdened by the albatross that is self-loathing.


“You can’t hate yourself into a version you can love,” they say.

I often wonder how you find that version you can love.

Is it hiding under society’s standards of what acceptability is?

Is it saying #bodypo quotes until I believe them?

If affirmation must be done daily, when will I really be content?




Carefree black girl, I want to be one.

Ducking mirrors is my truth instead.

3 years away from 25, is a quarter century enough to find oneself?

Where does contentedness lie?

In love?

In truth?

In self. Self amidst the chaos.

That is my contentedness. That is the contentedness I pursue.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s