You are not flattering me by telling me “it’s flattering.”

Flattering tells me that the pants hush the thunder in my thighs.
Flattering tells me that the corset cinches the rolls on my abdomen.

She tells me that the liner widens the slits of my eyes; that the scarf directs her gaze from my breasts’ dissonant presence.

Given the pitied, sorrowful, unfortunate circumstance, “it’s flattering.”

Flattering is the sorry, silver lining scathed onto the silhouette of an ogre.

To hell with
flattering!

Please don’t tell me it’s flattering.

Launch a thousand ships on behalf of my face!

Command my presence, upon stealing a glimpse of me nude, and conscript competition to the front line!

Tell me that given the crinkle above my nose, “when I’m looking at you like you’re nuts,” tell me that you love me!

Tell me that for what’s here on me right now,
tell me,
tell me “forswear it, sight, for I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”

Please, flattering hurts.