You say I’m gorgeous but you don’t touch me.

Praise doesn’t heat a bed.

You tell me I look beautiful.

Then you turn away.

This isn’t tenderness. It’s a handout.

A handout doesn’t feed hunger. Not the kind the body has.

The compliment arrives neat, correct, socially acceptable.
It smells nice.
It shines.
And it hides the hole.

When you compliment me without choosing me, my body learns that affection is a shop window.
That I can be se…