poetry journal

but i'm pretty

I'm almost certain that I've never been found attractive by anyone. 
I'm always told that I'm pretty.
Pretty nice, pretty cool, pretty smart, or plain pretty.
But never caring, intriguing, intelligent, or downright lovely. 
Just pretty.

In a way, it's nice. 
Nothing about me is seen in a negative light, which is a positive in and of itself. 
But deep inside of me, I know that I'm not special in their eyes.
I'm just another girl. 
I'm just pretty. 

When they look at me, they aren't blown away by anything in particular. 
Their gaze corresponds with thoughts of "well she's just average."

Average.

A word that means pretty when you're not trying to be kind to someone. 
"She is average" translates to "She is pretty".
No attempt is made to get to know the person beneath her skin.
All that is seen is that she's pretty. Nothing more.
She is average. 

"She is pretty," he says, not knowing what her favorite music artist is or how she takes her coffee in the morning, but still wanting to get to know her well enough to see her bare skin against his. 
"She is average," is said through his eyes as they traced parts of her body that are only visible through his sexualized gaze. 
"She is good enough," his mind says as it conjures the image of her naked body on top of his.