I’ve always hated my body, 

the way my parents

resented the family dog. 

Having to feed her, 

and bathe her, 

and walk her, 

while others get to 

look at her, 

and pet her,

and play with her.

I imagine living without her,

not having a body at all, 

an existence free from the obligation, 

floating through the air. 

Then I remember when our dog died, 

and my mom avoided the pet toy section of the store for months.

I remember how my dad made sure to give her a treat,

each time he had to put her outside.

I remember when July came, or January, 

and the sound of the fireworks made her shiver, 

they made sure to find her a blanket 

and wrap it around her, 

extra tight. 

I think maybe they loved her all along. 

I think maybe I could love my body too.

I stop for ice cream on the drive home, 

a treat for going outside. 

When I get back, I find my softest blanket, 

and wrap it around me, 

extra tight.