PRETTY

He told me I was pretty
I replied, “Pretty what?”
He hemmed and hawed
And spluttered for a while
Then repeated himself again,
Saying I was just pretty.
Just pretty, that was all.

But I can’t help but to wonder
At this surface qualification.
What makes him think “pretty”
When his eyes look upon my face?
What’s this oh so subjective,
And nebulous classification?
And how should I feel
About being labeled thus?

Are my eyes a just-so perfect
Distance from my nose?
Does my jawline angle provide
The optimum mastication?
Are my lips the right poofiness
To disguise the fangs within?
Do I have the right proportions
Just enough, but not too thin?

Will he next examine my teeth
To determine if I am of age?
Or hold up one of my feet
To check if limber enough?
Where are the measurements kept
To find the perfect fit
For his judgemental insinuations
That I am on display?

I also can’t help but wonder
If, once the compliment’s given
And I unwittingly accept it,
Does that give him the right
To criticize, when I no longer conform,
To the hidden measurements
That he judges “pretty”?

By cindy
7/24/2017