“You would be so pretty if you just…”
Growing up my mother never told me I was pretty. I don’t say that to mean she referred to me as beautiful, or lovely, even, but that she rarely referred to my looks except to offer some mild criticism.
That suited me well, as I was not, and am not “pretty.” I have scoured the many definitions of “prettiness” and have found entries referring to people and items of an appealing, delicate and simple nature.
Unfortunately, I have never been appealing, or delicate. My harsh edges have carved up the hands of those who have attempted to scale the barbed wire fences of sarcasm and scorn guarding my treasure trove of toxic waste emotions. I suppose I might appeal to the kind of man that willingly seeks out punishment, or a mother-like figure on whom he could project his desire to be loved. But to such a man I could not promise any affection that wouldn’t come with strings that would wrap themselves around his neck until he could no longer breathe without my permission. Perhaps, this too could be an aspiration to be loved, or at the very least, desired.
And simple, are people ever really simple, or is it just that we are too accepting of the faces they present to us? And if so have I-in my desire to be wanted and reluctance to be looked upon-have I merely chosen a mask that I am now unable to remove?
I believe that I am marred by a twisted nature that lies far deeper than any man could hope to reach with a gentle word or caring look. A particular blackness of the spirit, carefully nurtured and refined to smart the hand of any that would try to smother it. Alas, this kind of sickness was made to break anything weaker than a heart of steel and a tongue of fire. I fear it would crush your person, accustomed as you are to people an items of an appealing, delicate and simple nature.
Dear Sir, I have never once desired to be pretty.