I loved the way her hair would frizz a little when she got out of the shower and it started to dry
I couldn’t help it.
The Water droplets still clung to the delicate strands.
A leftover remnant from the shower beating down her back.
Her chocolate eyelashes complimented her mocha skin.
As she ran the towel down her body the rough fibers glided along the deeply etched scars permanently grooved into her skin. The Marks of expansion. Survival. Of change.
She started getting them when she was little. The scent of Cocoa Butter had hung in the air as she’d willed them to fade. It didn’t work. It’s good that it didn’t. None of the potions or creams ever did as they said. Similar to men. She’s survived through it and her skin now bore the marks of a thousand silent songs. Words that only she and I now know. I’m so proud of her. As her thighs smush and stick together the product of meals with company and time well spent. She feels better now in her body. More at ease. Her hair drips down her back. Hair that isn’t relaxed, but natural and coily. She looks in the mirror and I smile back.