Courage and Self Loathing

Take off your clothes, he says quietly.
No, I don't want to. My clothes are my armor.
With them on I can pretend the myriad of flaws aren't there.
The stretch marks, the moles, the wrinkles, the love handles. The cellulite. The scars.
I do not see them as remnants of my passage through time.
I see them as things that make me less worthy.
Infinitely less beautiful than everyone else around me.
I do as he says, reluctance in every moment.
He watches, silent. His eyes roam over me as each piece of armor is hesitantly stripped.
I can no longer meet his eyes once I am nude. I shudder under the weight of my shame.
Lay on the bed, he commands again. His voice is hard but his hands are gentle as he guides me down.
Positioning me in a way to best display myself to him.
My heart is pounding. I wait for the imminent rejection.
The excuses and the hurried exit.
It never comes.
He touches me with exquisite tenderness coupled with brief bursts of pain.
The pain grounds and centers me. I takes me far away from my insecurities and loathing.
I fly free amidst it on wings of arousal and joy.
In his arms I am no longer unworthy. I am invincible.
My flawed body is a glorious vessel for his need, his release. It is heavenly.
I am liquid fire under him.
I am cherished.
I am loved.
I am priceless.
I am valuable.
I am beautiful.
I am worthy.
Some day I will wake up knowing this every minute of every day to the core of my being.
For now I battle on.