My man’s love language is physical touch. And often times, as he’s nuzzling my neck in the kitchen or stealing a quick grope of my butt cheek when I pass him in the hallway, I wonder to myself “how can he love me when my body looks like this?”
As if my body is all there is of me to love. As if my worth is based on my attractiveness alone. As if my “fuckability” is all that matters. Continue reading “I’m a bad feminist”
Kellie Knight’s “Angle Full of Grace” 