Pretty

There’s no denying she’s pretty. The type of pretty that takes hours of consideration, lotions, and a calculator to add up those calories. She moves through the world like it’s all just scenery; backgrounds for popped hips and glossed lips and if the lighting’s not perfect, her filter is.

She rarely relaxes because her type of pretty feeds on compliments, like a gardenia raised in a glass house of attention and scrutiny. Every move is considered, every sentence carefully constructed, creating a beautifully composed persona to match ivory white petals.

I will never be gardenia gorgeous.

I am a wall dripping in ivy, dark and deep with a mouth that shoots thorns. Lips part releasing poison and perfume, but kiss me and you’ll see my tongue is a remedy soaked in honey and sweet tea. No, she and I are not the same, but I whisper to my childish jealousy, unearth a different breed of beauty. My hands sway like long grass, soft and dirty and open, digging out uneven amethysts from the caves between my shoulder blades.

Skinny wrists, rounded hips, and elbows well acquainted with bar counters and doorways—I’m all angles mixed with baby fat that never melted off, and I cannot be groomed to perfection. Myself sprawls and hides within the forests of my eyes and calls out to any wayward soul, I see you.

Press your hands into the sands of my thighs and sink into me.


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