Pretty

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,
Coy, contemptible
Remaining curious, wondering what it could mean.

And it is cyclical.
Where I panic and struggle to navigate the simplest of circumstances
I conclude
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.
Poisonous
Incredulous.
Because what fool rejects what is currency
When we all must live here, somehow?

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