Beautiful

You can only think that I am beautiful.

Don’t you get that?

Don’t you remember when you told me that I am?

Told me that you want me.

That I am the most beautiful in the world.

So how can you think she is pretty?

That girl?

Those people?

Or that woman in the picture next to that rapper?

Am I missing something?

A hidden clause that authorizes your affection to extend past your blessing and wander into a dimension of make believe.

How could you fix your mouth to say another is beautiful?

Am I not as beautiful as you made me out to be?

Does your love for me linger in moments of time coated in the energy of right now or then?

Are your words just motions of fixation waiting for a fix?

I thought you loved me.

How could you…?

If she is beautiful.. oh wait -pretty.

You said pretty as if a simpler adjective lessens the distance you’ve brought us.

How could you love me if your gaze finds another, how you say it, “pretty?”

I’m pretty.

I AM beautiful.

Fuck you.

Make me feel like I’m small.

Unseen under a vivid lens of comparison that you have forced upon me.

An uncomfortable crime.

What if I feel small?

Will you not build me up?

No?

Because the offense is diminutive, and you’re only human.?

My question. Your answer.

Are you the dumbest person ever?

Am I?

Go and be with your observations.

Or do you not know them?

If you did, would you love them?

Would you continually celebrate what brought you to them?

Or would you give way to humanism yet again and make sight your occupation?

Silence.

With the exception of you asking me what is wrong.

I am not beautiful. Didn’t you say that?

You said she is pretty.

Same thing.

Don’t tell me it’s not a big deal and don’t you dare offer me some lecture on confidence.

My perspective on myself has little to do with your opinion.

But you’ve given your opinion, and now I’m left to reiterate that perspective to myself.

And now here we are.

Complete silence.

Because I am beautiful and she is pretty.

And I drank enough to open my senses to doubt.

Now I’m out of the car. On a bench. In front of the hotel. In the cold. At night.

All because she’s pretty.

And I am beautiful.

And you know both answers.