Once my father called me a slut for wearing jeans at a wedding. A couple of years later he would call me vulgar and lewd for not veiling myself at church. Pretty safe to say that I was aware of what my skin could do. What my bones held. I was told that women’s bodies were crafted to seduce and trap men, lure them into temptation and have them fall wayward on their paths. Years of trying to dress modestly or at least being told to do so manifested into immense hate and embarrassment towards my vessel. 

I would fixate on the fragments of my body that called to attention, the eyes of strangers. I drowned myself in clothing I loathed. I refused to adorn jewellery and fabrics I adored. I shrunk myself so less people would notice my tangibility. 

It got worse as time went by. At one point, I remember bathing with my clothes on and covering my mirror when I had to change. The only cluster of cells I loved in my body was my brain. I romanticised academia and did everything for everyone to notice my wit than the tarnished gold of my skin. I must admit that nobody called me ugly, I didn’t think I was either. But sometimes it's not becoming beautiful that is painful, but being. 

Every time somebody made a remark about my body, my stomach would churn and collapse unto itself, it wanted to dissolve and then concurrently absolve me of the discomfort I felt. And that’s the label I put on it, discomfort. Never something as strong as hate even though it moved me like hurricanes over flower beds.

The discomfort started to lift off when I first fell in "love". He kept telling me how beautiful I was and I found it hard to digest, the revolt in my face made him change his approach. He would then tell me that the arches of my body and the feeling of my skin grew things within his pants and somehow, that was more edible than the word “beautiful”. Because that's what little girls are taught, my body was fulfilling its purpose. 

When that love proved to be nothing more than a reflection of my inflamed home, I covered it up just like I did with my shame. I broke our fragile relationship and with it the skin deep etchings of my body’s beauty. 

The words of discomfort settled deeper into my pores, the scars from previous assaults and gropings poured them into my blood. I tried washing them away with whisky and tears. I starved myself to help my skin dry out and evaporate the hate. I cut myself to help it spill when I felt it was overflowing. One day I downed three strips of pills to free my soul from its cage and once again, my body failed me. 

I believe that the first time our fathers held us they felt a love more deeper than the ones they had previously known, I believe it. But I also believe the fear that manifested in them that moment was stronger. 

It's not just our fathers, we're all taught to never tell a girl how beautiful she really is. Lest she become too drunk with vanity and forget to desperately need the validation of others. Lest she become too drunk with vanity that she flaunts her very being and lure in serpents with the promise of eternal sin. But the irony is that we are all beautiful and no matter the layers of deep seated insults that manage to dilute it, our beauty will eventually solidify. 

Yes, we don't tell boys they're beautiful either but we don't teach men to aspire to be beautiful, we teach our women that. 

Bitch, whore, slut, cunt eventually become words women grow desensitised to, making it easier for abusers to mask themselves as lovers. 

I now see that beneath the shabby clothes and smeared dust, smudged kohl and chapped lips, conjoined eyebrows and tired skin, is a body that thrived and survived heat waves, floods, cyclones, pneumonia, asthma, suicide and most importantly abuse.

I learned that no matter how hard I tried to conceal myself, my body called for attention because it deserved it. Just like yours. 

Dear womxn, our brains will fold under the touch of a finger but our bodies have overcome a million glances, glares and grasps. How could a body like that not deserve love from your heart? 

Dear parents, your daughters will remain beautiful no matter how many times or how many variations of the word 'ugly' get thrown at her. So stop trying. 

Dear abusers, sometimes we fail to grasp the gravity of your words and sometimes we succeed in overlooking them because our love is that strong - but that doesn't mean you deserve it. 

Dear bodies, we ask for your forgiveness.