Don’t tell me I am beautiful

Don’t tell me I am beautiful. See, I have spent years trying to grasp the meaning of that word. Because beauty comes from the inside out. And it goes through and through. Instead. Tell me something with depth. Tell me I am intelligent. Tell me my words make sense. Tell me I am a force to reckon with;that with a brain like mine, I could change the world. Tell me my eyes see right through you. Tell me there’s something about them that does more than just seeing the world. Tell me there is depth in them. Because I am deep. As deep as the ocean. As vast as the earth’s terrain. As rugged as the earth’s terrain;with its highs and lows. With my high’s and lows. From my silly goofiness to admirable intelligence. From my cool composure to emotional insanity. As insane as my notions on humour. Humour; what truly makes a woman sexy. So tell me I am sexy, not because of my breasts or hips, but because of my sense of humour, what’s inside my head, my ability to hold a conversation about a lot more than how my day was; whether it was bad or nice. As nice as that would be. As nice as I almost never am. But call me nice all the same. In as much as i wont smile when i meet you and hugs aren’t exactly my favourite things on this planet.but because I will say thank you and sorry and mean it. Because I will be there for you when you need me to, even if you won’t want me to. So don’t just pay me a complement. Tell me something I will remember, long after I have met you, even when I don’t remember your face, when the butterflies you stirred in the pit of my stomach have settled down. Tell me something that will make saying “nice to meet you” worth my while.

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