Is it when my voice
is heavy with no,
or when silence chains me
to the no I couldn’t say?

Is it when my hands
refuse to move
in the dance they command,
or when they move anyway
just to keep the peace?

Do I lose my beauty
when my smile doesn’t bloom
on cue,
when my nod isn’t obedient,
when my spine stays straight
instead of bending?

Do I fade
when I cross streets in straight lines,
stand still where told,
pretend I’m fine—
even pretend I’m dead—
to survive the laughter
that stings?

Do I stop being lovely
when my lips pray
instead of pouting,
when they sing,
recite verses,
or whisper secrets to the wind,
but refuse to curse
for entertainment?

Tell me—
is beauty only mine
when I surrender,
when I ache quietly,
when I let their script
become my skin?

Or do I stop being pretty
the moment I live
for myself?