Don’t call me beautiful when your hands have become wrenches

prying open my legs.

Your eyebrow raising into your hairline as you

unsuccessfully try to ease the words out of your mouth,

like two roads

separating between

“are you sure” and

“it’ll be okay”.

permission infusing with persuasion.

Don’t call me beautiful when you’ve attached the word fucking

into every compliment that slips out of your mouth.

You didn’t picture my body to be a demolished landscape,

Cracked crevices

Scarred skin.

Call me beautiful when you have seen

The hills of my stomach

Me laughing at the smallest things

Don’t call me beautiful until it is equivalent to the love

As ancient as the ring on my grandmother’s finger.

Call me beautiful when you feel the waves of my love

Crashing onto your shore.

Call me beautiful when I am gone

and you are left remembering the way I smelt

like blossoming flowers,

the same ones you’ve laid on my grave.

 

(h.t.)