I DON'T WANNA BE YOUR PRETTY GIRL

Tell me I’m pretty.

Tell me I’m pretty and I will do everything I can to stay forever your pretty baby. Just please don’t leave me.

A young girl who was not yet ten once told me, I can’t wait to be a big girl because then I can wear makeup and be pretty. She learned earlier than I did that beauty has a cost.

Tell me you see me. Tell me I’m pretty.

Growing up, loved ones always saw me for my intellect, my academic success. Maybe they thought they were saving me from falling into the pit where self-worth hinges upon being pretty. Maybe they saw me as something – someone – far vaster than what the light reflected. But what I saw was the way my siblings were praised for the ways the light reflected their faces.

Sometimes I just wanted to be told I was pretty, too.

Tell me you love me. Tell me you see me. Tell me I’m pretty.

A boy once told me that he found me very pretty – in a pure way – and that he wouldn’t change a thing about me. But in the same breath he said, you know, you really have the potential to be pretty, if only I lost a little weight and wore more makeup.

Don’t tell me I’m pretty.

We are taught from a young age that our knight in shining armor will find us one day; he will need only a moment to recognize we are everything he didn’t realize he needed or wanted. One moment, and he will bask in the rays of our beauty – naturally-crafted – forever. We need to do nothing but be pretty.

Tell me you see me. Don’t tell me I’m pretty.

But they lied to us. What they meant to say is that being pretty is something to be fought for, though almost never achieved. Being pretty is something to be bought, sold, consumed, owned, bestowed. What they mean to say is that being pretty is anything but ours to have and to hold. Because feeling pretty means nothing without the proper certification, as awarded by everyone and no one.

We cannot be pretty if no one says it is so. Does a fallen tree make a noise if there is no one there to hear it? Is an apple still an apple before someone calls it so?

We cannot be pretty if no one says it is so? The tree still falls with a crash and the apple still grows.

Hush now.

They tell us being pretty is a shallow endeavor, though not being pretty is a sign of self-neglect.

They tell us beauty comes from within, though no one will want us if we are not pretty, no matter the vastness that lies beneath our skin.

They tell us beauty is in the eye of the beholder, though there is a right way to behold.

Tell me you love me. Tell me you see me. Don’t tell me I’m pretty.

When did it become embarrassing to name a pretty that is completely ours; a pretty that is everything we are and everything we are not? What happened to the art of beholding the way light and love reflect in a pair of eyes, the way cheeks rise to make way for a smile, the way someone’s presence makes you feel a way you haven’t in a while?

What happened to cherishing a pretty that feels like it was crafted just for our eyes, unburdened by lies?

Let my pretty be mine.

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[cover image courtesy of Pinterest]

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