call me

I don't want to be called nice.
It's too easy, too simply stated
for a girl as complex as me.
Nice is for the sidelines,
fake smile plastered to a wounded heart
a mediocre costume of femininity
that has been overlooked once again.

I don't want to be called pretty.
That's what your girl friends say
when you wear a bit of makeup
and blow your hair out just right.
It's nothing beyond the day,
the value is gone once the facade
washes down the drain.

I don't want to be called hot.
It degrades me, reduces me to body.
I'm not a spectacle, open to these
unrefined words and crude desires.
The essense of me is hidden
deep inside
and it takes more than words to draw it out.

I don't want to be called cute.
Do I resemble a puppy? A kitten? A child?
I've grown beyond the days of curled hair
pink cheeks and party dresses.
I am a woman
of depth, of wounds, of sex, of strength.

I want to be called beautiful.
Beauty is enduring
longer than a day, longer than a night together.
Beauty enchants, mesmerizes, inspires
the words of poets and the strokes of painters.
Beauty erupts from the deepest volcano
hot lava of woman spilling everywhere.

I want to be called beloved.
I want to know I'm adored
cherished and treasured.
I want to twirl in my heels
into the dancing arms of a man.
I want to dazzle with my smile,
into the captivated arms of a man.
I want to enrapture with my heart,
into the loving arms of a man.
And I want to awaken with my purity
the longing arms of a man

naked

unashamed

beloved

beautiful.