I want to be pretty.

I don’t know what that means

I don’t know if it equates to the amount of free
Drinks I can flirt my way into, how many compliments
I get on my new dress as it swishes in the soft breeze.

I don’t know how many men need to want to touch me,
How many people need to be jealous of me, how many eyes 
Need to be on me.

I don’t know if it refers to the delicate purity of my
Slightly parted lips, or the oceans that live in my eyes, 
Or the fire that flashes and licks the air when i let my hair down.

I don’t know if it even cares about my wit, or my intellect,
Or the small kindnesses I perform. 

I don’t know if pretty is ever something I will feel 
Just by myself in my room, in my bed, in my kitchen 
Or my living room.

I don’t know what it means to be pretty. 

I think pretty belongs to someone else.