The Curse of Beauty

I get flowers and I get poems written for me.
I get showers of praises directed to me.
All these compliments, even more promises,
I get everything, every fucking thing to me.

My beauty is a symbol of power through views.
A power that I cannot control or use.
With sweet little lies, and thousands of tries.
They try to be poets and I am their muse.

Only by seeing me something they feel.
They fall in love, without my will.
Don't know my taste, not even my name.
Yet my beauty is now theirs to claim.

I've seen things you couldn't even dream of.
I've felt things you'll never think to wish for.
Countless dick pics, encounters with a rapist.
Constantly scared, still wanting to live more.

Should I blame my beauty for giving me scars?
Am I just their trophy they win with wars?
They'll call me a bitch, or slut or a hoe.
Use once then throw when that's all they know.