This is my temple.

Not because it is perfect—

but because it is mine.

Because I have walked through fire

and still hold softness.

Because I have been touched

and still choose tenderness.

My skin remembers every bruise—

and forgives none.

My thighs part

not for entry,

but for worship.

Every stretch mark is scripture.

Every scar, a psalm.

I run my hands down my stomach

like an altar,