Body of Evidence

Dear Cosmopolitan,

Do not call me brave for wearing a crop top.

My body is not a fear I have faced,

is not a war I have won,

is not anything I have vanquished or conquered or overcome.


Do not assume my body is something I’ve had to learn to accept,

or something I struggle with when I look in the mirror,

or at the scale.


My body is not something I am finally at peace with after years of self-degradation, self-deprecation, congratulations! The fat girl feels comfortable wearing a crop top!

I have always loved my body.



Do not call me brave for wearing horizontal stripes

or showing my thighs

or my back/boobs/arms/ankles/cankles.

Wearing a bikini is not revolutionary.


My body is not a challenge on Project Runway,

is not a pear or an apple or an hourglass.

Flatten your stomach but show off your ass!

Not something to strategically cover,

Khloe Kardashian fixer-upper;

my body is not your fashion pity project.



The last time I checked, fat is not a four-letter word.

Fat is an adjective to describe all 243 pounds of love I have,

best you’ve ever had,

best you’ll never get again if you’re shocked that I love who I am.


My body is not a threat for kids who ask for seconds,

is not punishment

or consequence.


My body is not repulsive.

If one more skinny bitch tells me guys would like me if I lost some weight,

I’ll take her on my next tinder date and she can watch as he kisses every inch I have to offer.

My body has never been an inhibitor.


My body is a museum with a line down the fucking block,

waiting for the doors to be unlocked.

My body is art to be admired.


My body is a ripe fruit on a barren tree.

Everybody wants a piece

but I am not easy pickings.


My body is not your fat fetish,

is not an easy fuck,

is not “damn baby you thicc” at 3am,

and my rape case is not she should be glad someone wanted to have sex with her.


My body is rolling hills.

is lush, is luscious, is lascivious.

My body is salacious, is sacrosanct, is sanctuary. 

My body is red wine.

My body is mine.

And Cosmopolitan, if you want bravery, go talk to the millions of screaming girls of color whose voices will never be heard as loudly as a white woman in a crop top.