These thighs say thunder.

These thighs say celluite, wide, say open.

These thighs say stretch marks, bad tattoos, say unshaved glory.

These thighs say they are upset because you only offered one bite of your onion rings.

These thighs say "what the hell is a thigh gap?" 

These thighs say no to Urban Outfitters, no to American Apparel, no to Hollister, but yes to the pair of dark washed, worn out jeans they wear three times a week because they fit right. 

These thighs say feminism. 

These thighs make a joke out of shorts. 

These thighs say "we don't want your praise man on the sidewalk, man in the parking lot, man at the grocery store while we're buying tampons." 

These thighs know bruised, quake, lust, fear. 

These thighs say scarred, pale, say tired. 

These thighs don't know small; monsterous, sturdy, know elephant in every room. 

These thighs say you don't know shit about this woman, the stilts that hold this body. 

These thighs say leave the light on. 

These thighs say give me more, please. 

These thighs are the welcoming commitee, the gate, the terrible twins. 

These thighs say "come in, when we say." 

These thighs know this body is theirs, it is ours.