I’m sorry that he loves your body
and not your soul;
I’m sorry that in five years he
will fall in love with me
because I can quote his favorite books
and he can’t resist the sweet-smelling
lilac from my hair that clings
to his pillow for dear life.

He will tell me that I far outweigh
your protruding hipbones (no pun
intended) with the way my curves
fit perfectly in his hands.
Strands of my hair will fall through
his fingers as he tells of your
bottle-blonde locks; he’s always
fancied brunettes.
He will cook dinner for us every
Saturday night, satisfied and happy
that I am not afraid to eat
like you were.

He will love the way I am
comfortable in my own skin; I dance
around our living room, unashamed
of the way I might shake up
the world (or at least wake the neighbors
downstairs).
He will trace my smile with one hand
and the scars on my wrist with
the other, knowing full well
that your silly mind could ever
understand such pain.
He will remind me, gently, every day,
how beautiful I am to him, and I
know that all those nights
long ago when I compared myself
to you were all
in vain.