You, Who Praised Me Beautiful
Excerpt of prose work.
A sharp examination of transactional intimacy, exploring how performative desire and hollow flattery reveal the distance between being praised and being truly seen.
You praise my writing — so good, so talented. You say.
So beautiful.
Yes. I think. Yes, I know.
You say this as if this is news to me.
As if you are the first to ever think this, as if I should weep at your praise.
As if this is the key to unlocking my touch — what we both know you seek.
Oh, thank you, I will say,
Thank you.
You are so insightful.
You see me in such a different light, I will say.
No one understands me like you, I will say.
You will beam, purring under my praise.
Just as you expect me to fold under yours.
Later (because I do let you, after all), you touch me in much the same way.
Your murmured praises much the same, too.
So beautiful.
So amazing.
Yes. I think. Yes, I know.