Connection.
finding beauty in the self is like a mirror house.
Recently, I’ve been told by a few strangers that I’m pretty.
‘You have a beautiful smile’ or ‘I think you’re really pretty’ flow into my ears like the musical tale of a bard with falsehood as fragrant as liquor.
Yet somehow, it still doesn’t connect.
Years of being told by my parents that I’m pretty, beautiful, or gorgeous still don’t hit the same as strangers that have nothing to gain by lavishing you in a compliment or two. It’s unexpected and catches me off guard, leaving me to think about it for the rest of the day in a dazed trance.
I take compliments for sprinkles of luck or a fleeting glance. Something I’m graciously gifted for good karma only to not fully believe it. Decrepit lies from the mouth of the snake as I look in the mirror to hopefully catch a glimpse of what they see.
Even when I see other women my size, comparison drags me down. The rose tinted glasses fall from my face when a mirror comes to play. My high cheekbones and crinkled eyes don’t always fall into view when I smile, the way my curls bounce on my head like one big pom pom, the way my freckles reposition as my lips curl and display imperfect, crooked, slightly yellow teeth.
Some little worm in my ear finds a way into my subconscious with truth of ‘You know you’re pretty.’ And yet, I still find a way to counter that argument with thoughts of how others are prettier with out scars from acne or mishaps in the garden.
I think I’m done with the simplicity of generic compliments. Give me poetry as you proclaim to experience my beauty. Something that will imprint on the soft matter of my brain for decades to come. Flattery that will come spilling out of my body on the autopsy table, flowery and bright and contagious while the experts pop a smile at the fragrancy of my belief. Mind over matter, right?
Something I’ve been meaning to get out of me as I’m trying to be my most genuine self. Thank you for reading my soul’s diary, despite how short my anthologies are.
words from the graveyard’s caretaker, Kaine ꨄ
“flattery that will come spilling out of my body on the autopsy table” ???? so real.