Loving me is jazz on a Thursday.
It’s toast with too much butter
and not a damn apology in sight.
It’s Diana Krall in the background,
singing like she knows my secrets,
and still sends me flowers anyway.
It’s the lipstick I wear while doing absolutely nothing
but cleaning my tub and flirting with my own reflection.
It’s calling my thighs “ancestral real estate”
and tipping them for housing all this holy history.
I don’t just walk—I strut through my kitchen,
swaying like the leaves in Central Park,
like I’m on a Vogue cover
and the stove is my spotlight.
And Lord, the audacity—
the audacity to love myself this loudly.
To eat mangoes in bed
with the juice dripping like gospel
and call it communion.
To wear silk robes to make coffee
because my ancestors didn’t survive storms
for me to wear anything less than luxury
—even on a Monday.
To laugh—deep, guttural,
ugly and divine—
because joy is resistance
and I’m the damn revolution
in fuzzy socks.
I talk to my plants.
I send myself voice notes.
I flirt with my own name in the mirror.
And when loneliness taps on the window,
I wink,
pour her some tea,
and let Diana play something slow
while we sway into our sacred silliness.
Darling, loving me
is not an aesthetic—it’s an art form.
An unruly jazz solo
with perfect imperfections,
a velvet rebellion against every lie
I was told about my worth.
And tonight,
with Diana Krall crooning,
and my bathwater steaming,
I raise a glass to this beautiful,
brilliant, buttered-up version of me—
whole,
holy,
and hilariously divine.
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