Pretty

I don't just not feel pretty 

I am disgusted by the very idea

The word makes my skin crawl with vitriol

It takes every ounce of good grace 

and sense not to slap that word 

out of every mouth 

that has ever puckered up 

to form the sounds that make it up 

You can try and wrap it tight 

in a grosgrain ribbon 

cover it in printed tissue paper

but I know what it is 

and it isn't some magnanimous gift

it's a threat 

a threat to everything 

I have built myself up to stand for

Educated is not a pretty thing to become 

ripping out all of the beautiful lies planted by our forebears 

Abused and confused isn't a pretty way to live 

it's exactly why people can't stand to lay their eyes on it

freedom isn't a pretty thing to strive for 

to instill in your broken heart shards

pretty is an insult of the highest order

a denigration for those 

over which you need to exorcise power

pretty is a bouquet of summer flowers

lilies from the garden 

I watch wilt and die 

before my eyes 

right in the palms of my work-softened hands

K.B. Silver

~*~

I have had to come to terms with the fact that the abuses I survived severely affected my self-image. I don't believe I am hideously ugly. I view being physically attractive as a danger. I've also had to work on that reflex, the instinct to immediately react to those words when my husband says them. I know that he really feels and believes them, that I am lucky to hear them genuinely, and that I might actually find I miss them if I convince him to stop altogether. So he has been issued a permanent pass. On good days, I try to accept it with grace, and on bad days, I just try to turn away and keep my peace.