i can sit here and think, 'i hate my arms. i hate my fucking arms.' and it can seem like my arms are one of the smallest, most insignificant aspects of life if anyone else is witnessing the situation of a young woman half-screaming at her appendages. but these are my supporters, my means of grasping at the world and the skin stretched across the young bones has always been rough and awkward -- flushed like patches of winter faces all peering and shivering out at the world. there's excess -- skin, fat, those spots my mother calls 'beauty marks'. i want to be the type of girl who can love her arms because she can wrap them around her body. maybe she'll understand the insignificance but love them even more because they are not 'she', but they are.