I have been told that I am pretty.
And it sticks out like a pointed finger, like a mistake
Anomalously mingling with the rest of my memories,
The rest of my experience.
I looked for her, or for whatever that was.
And while afraid to seem disingenuous,
Remaining curious, wondering what it could mean.
And it is cyclical.
Where I panic and struggle to navigate the simplest of circumstances
Despite what the audience may say,
That it doesn’t particularly matter what we look like.
Are we kind?
Are we hardworking?
And then, from nowhere, comes an affirmation
That I scarcely believe
I give it a wide berth, as though it may be dangerous,
That I am pretty.
But I cannot walk around it, politely excuse myself.
It stands in my path to reason with me.
There is resentment for my ingratitude
Bafflement, that I should examine so closely
Even consider rejecting
Such a fine, important gift as this.
Recognise where your value lies, I hear.
Let me remind you where your value lies.
Submit. Thank me.
It is a jolt.
An inaccuracy, an imposition.
I was busy, I was thinking.
Oiled and honeyed and insidious.
Because what fool rejects what is currency
When we all must live here, somehow?