You say I'm beautiful but you don't see the sweat running down my legs.
You say I'm beautiful then turn to your friend and call them ugly.
You say I'm beautiful but grab my arm to compare my complexion to yours.
You say I'm beautiful but don't bother to understand me.
You say I'm beautiful but don't ask me why I'm here.
You say I'm beautiful and compliment my body structure all while diminishing the value of yours. A body that has housed children, cared for those that are not your own, and lived a life of endurance in a country that knows how to physically wear a body down.
You say I'm beautiful yet you now know body comments make me uncomfortable.
You say I'm beautiful as you whizz past me on your motorbike while I'm wondering the intent of a harmless comment by three young men in a sexually conservative country.
You say I'm beautiful then laugh in my face when I say thank you in your language like I'm some kind of object for your enjoyment and bewilderment.
You say I'm beautiful to get my attention as I seek a quiet place to read.
You say I'm beautiful hanging over the ledge of your second floor window to get my attention below.
You say I'm beautiful but you really mean hello.
You say I'm beautiful on our morning walks to school. You tug at my hand. I look down and you mouth the words lah deh.
You say I'm beautiful loudly in English every morning because you know hearing you speak English to me makes me smile.
You say I'm beautiful but I've come to know it as many things you don't have the words to say: an acknowledgement of my being or a simple hello or a cat call or your projection of your own insecurities or to say I love you.
You say so much and so little when you say I'm beautiful.
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