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 self. Self amidst the chaos.
That is my contentedness. That is the contentedness I pursue.