You tell me I’m sexy—
as though it were a revelation.
It isn’t.
I’ve long since made peace with my reflection,
long since understood the language my presence speaks
without needing translation from anyone else.
You offer compliments like soft landings—
gentle, well-intentioned,
perhaps even rehearsed.
And yes—
They make me smile.
But a smile is not an arrival.
You see, not everything that glides.
It is meant to touch down.
Not every word, however polished,
earns a place within me.
There is a difference
between being noticed
and being understood.
Between admiration
and elevation.
You assume your words might lift me—
make me soar, perhaps—
But that is a rather rudimentary approach
to a woman who has already learned
How to fly without permission.
If you wish to reach me,
You must meet me
where depth replaces assumption,
where presence outweighs performance,
where language carries intention—
not just charm.
Until then,
Receive my grace,
My quiet acknowledgment,
my unbothered smile.
And go—
gently, respectfully—
on your merry way–
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Healing Majestically 