With Compliments

By Bea Mendoza

I remember the way that he called me beautiful

made me feel that I wasn’t. Rather, I was

a picture

in his mind,

fixed

in a gallery somewhere

behind glass that was never smudged. 

Distantly pristine.

Oh, come on! Give him a shot! Don’t you know how

hard it is to speak your mind? To step up? Be nice!

I remember the way that he called me beautiful

speaking only with his hands.

I never want to be One of Those Girls that Can’t Take a F—ing Compliment

so I laughed. Smiled. Satisfied his needs. 

Playfully leaned. He thought that I liked it when he— 

(if I keep on smiling maybe he’ll leave)

I remember the way that he called me beautiful.

I was taught to overflow with grace and

gratitude, 

to empty words and hollow eyes.

All of me, on display,

my value suddenly more, more, more, raised at the behest of a stranger

pointing, paddle raised, just to say what I 

didn’t need, nor ask for.

My blood, paint on canvas; my face, spotlit; 

my body, marble in a room I’ll never know, 

caressed by those who say beautiful and to whom I must

fall on my knees (all shocked in appreciation!)

because it was so damn nice of 

you

to think 

me 

beautiful!

Wasn’t I just waiting my whole life to be Beautiful?