My body will no longer apologize. I am an anomaly of soft curves made from proudly eaten cupcakes. I am skin made of the earth from the world’s first civilizations. My hair with its tangled forests bows down to no comb or brush. It is the dominant trait from the blood of my ancestors – warriors and lion-hearted girls. I hold my head high to balance this crown. My hips hold my jeans up and guide my swagger. My feet with their calloused bottoms tell the stories of midnight dances in the street and every tree that I have climbed and fallen out of while trying to prove to my brothers that girls are strong too. The puncture wounds from my sewing needle are battle scars from the war of living. My stretch marks map out my journey to adulthood. These scars are embellishments decorating my shoulders and thighs, reminding me to keep struggling but also that it’s okay to be vulnerable. My small hands can’t fix everything I’ve broken, but they’re learning. My eyes are wide with pupils that are floating in an exosphere nearing heaven. They are searching for God, for beauty that scratches deeper than any manicured hand could. My teeth are switchblades shaving to a point every word that I spit. My mouth is the opening to this temple body, so don’t tell me to close it. And though this body may be just a cloak for this soul, it has taught this soul many things. I must forgive myself now for betraying my body for the voices of an adopted culture that told me freedom comes from beauty that is silken and bears a straight nose. I must undo the white flag of surrender that binds my immigrant mouth, for my beauty will no longer surrender, and my body will no longer apologize.