I have been told on more than one occasion

That I am beautiful.

I find this funny given I have only felt that way

Once or twice.

Memories of femme perfume, burning hair, and bedroom window open.

Blowing winds, and sunny smells, and music drifting like a halo around my head.

Any sane person would feel like that there

In that beautiful memory.

I thank God for my ivory skin,

My fanning eyelashes,

And my spring-like curls.

But even if I seem nice on the outside

I know that’s not what beautiful really means.

So when I’m told in passing

That I am beautiful

I don’t let it go to my head.

Because I do not think I am beautiful

Since beauty is measured by the inside

And my insides are more slimy and terrible

Than the organs behind my skin.

Inside resides a swarm of cockroaches, larva, and wasps,

Circling an already rotten bowl of fruit.

Another me grows like a tumor on the back of my head

poking fun

goading me on

forcing her way into every single decision;

there to tell me what to do

and there to chastise me when it all goes wrong.

Surely people would not not think me so beautiful, if they could see the parasite behind me.

What I think.

What I choose.

The fact I keep doing the same bad things over

And over

And over.

I don’t feel beautiful anymore

Because my straightener is missing

I’m out of Avon perfume,

It’s too cold to open the window,

And the sun seems to have stopped shining altogether.

I have been told on more than one occasion

That I am beautiful.

But every time I hear it

I know they only mean I’m pretty.