I have a strange relationship
With the word “beautiful”.
Now, I know this is
Supposed to be
Is a rite of passage for some-
But, when I am called beautiful,
I seldom feel a lift in mood,
That word puts me on alert…
Every time someone wants something
From me, it always starts with “beautiful”-
As if attraction is an excuse for abuse,
For ignorance of my boundaries, or of my emotional state.
I am not ungrateful that my physical presence is treasured,
Though, I notice…
So many enjoy looking at me,
But the conversation grows stale
When I try to interact,
When I move from a decoration to a soul.
I don’t speak to deaf ears.
I’m not a fucking decoration.
I’m a frustrated woman.
More than beautiful,