I’m The Girl Who Doesn’t Know How To Take Compliments

I never know what to do with compliments.
They make me feel like I have cotton in my mouth.
I’ve been told when I was four
I must be adopted. I was too ugly to be my mother’s child.
I’ve been told when I was six
the scars I got from the playground
would be offensive to my future husband.

I never know what to do with compliments.
They make me feel fake.
I’ve been taught since I was eight
my skin color defined my worth.
That the smoothness of my legs would determine
if I could join pageants and be Miss Universe.

I never know what to do with compliments.
When my friends say ‘that’s a really great photo of you’
or when a stranger says ‘you’re pretty’.
Maybe. Maybe this is why I’m hungry,
why I lick the feet of any guy
who pays for beer or treats me nicely.

I never know what to do with compliments.
When I was twelve I was taught to hate myself.
My mother gave me bedtime stories on
how to mess my mental health.

I never know what to do with compliments.
I’ve been told five minutes ago I don’t deserve them.
‘What a lovely dress! She’s grown up to be so beautiful!’
‘You call that beautiful?’ She scoffs.
I’ve been taught to receive them in silence.

I never know what to do with compliments.
Until I stopped listening to what people said.
Until I learned I didn’t need anyone’s permission
to smile and feel good with myself.

‘Thank you.’