And Still, I Know

They said I was beautiful.

And I believed them—
not from certainty,
but hunger.

I curved myself
to fit their eyes,
let flattery feel like safety,
let praise pretend to be love.

But roses are taken
before they fall.
Tigers are skinned
for their stripes.
Pearls are torn from silence.

Beauty draws the gaze,
then the blade.

And those called ugly
the spider, the snake—
are punished too,
but for daring to exist.

Even at home,
where hands were busy with bread
and rooms smelled of oil and prayer,
love sometimes wore
a different kind of mask.

The men?
They spoke sweetness
that left no trace.

Now, when they call me beautiful,
I do not thank them.
I say I know.

Because the flower never begs to bloom.
Because the star never asks to be seen.
Because beauty—
real beauty—
blooms anyway.

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