He said I was beautiful.
It felt more of a compliment than the guy who snapped a picture of me on his phone at the local supermarket,
then proceeded to call his friends to tell them in a hoarse, frantic voice how “hot” I was.
I just stood there, staring in chock and not even managing to call him out on his hideous action. Did I want to make a scene? No. Better walk away, profoundly ashamed.
The thing is, I hear these things a lot. Me. Beautiful.
I am – beautiful.
I am –
Of course, I immediately started to excuse myself for my runny makeup, messy hair, etcetera. He smiled. Beauty’s not in the makeup, he said.
I pretended to agree.
It is, in my case. I’m just good with the pen, you see. I’m not actually beautiful.
It would be terrifying.
My red flushed, unvarnished face brings me comfort in the mirror at night.
I don’t want to know what beautiful is.
Because beautiful makes people think of you as a painting, a sculpture, a walking bloody exhibit. Beautiful gives them the right to measure me, rate me, capture me, own me. I wouldn’t mind, right? Because I’m beautiful. Beautiful justifies interest up to the point where it transcends into creepiness, harassment and stalking. Beautiful destroys you.
Beautiful is a fucking disease.