When you want to describe her, don’t talk about how long her hair is or the color of her eyes or what her bra size is. She isn’t defined by her physical appearance. She isn’t a weight. She isn’t a body part for you to drool over. She is not her age nor her name nor her skin color.
You’re made of so much beauty But it seems that you forget When you decided you were defined By the things you’re not
She is all the poetry that she secretly writes and the highlighted passages in her favorite books. She is all the giggles when you tickle her and the sobs at 4 in the morning. She is all the pictures of the exotic places in the world she’s been to and the one that calls her home. She is all the tattoos that express what she sometimes can’t say. She is her strengths, weaknesses, phobias, dreams, beliefs and values. She is all the people and pets that she loves. She is all the scars from when the pain in her body was too much and the ones from when she fell down from her bike and the tiny paper cuts and the burns from when she tried to cook. She is all the songs she sings in the shower and all the improv dances when she thinks no one is looking and all the speeches she gave to a standing ovation. She is made of galaxies and fires and stars and seas and thunderstorms.
So how dare you try and limit her to whether her legs are long enough or if her collarbone is visible or if her teeth are straight or her stretch marks and stomach rolls? She is so much more than that and she knows it, so you better fucking learn it too the next time you describe her as the girl who’s a 34 DD or the girl with braces or the girl with red hair and a big ass.