Somewhere between flattery and glorification,

I watched the shell of a coconut, a strong, resistant, carefully fronted facade break open to reveal a tender vulnerability, clinging on to a resilient shell of grandeur and hardiness– a tender vulnerability that offered a delightful sweetness that reminded consumers of the bliss that followed blood and sweat.

Somewhere flattery and glorification escalated to modest revelations of primary conflicts and stressors, a confident admission of issues that caused you intolerable surges of distress and insomniac nights. My carefully crafted, flowered words, offered you solace and a territory to carelessly rant in.

You slowly and gradually wiped off the concealer, revealing every scar, letting each bleed till your skin turned numb, unfurling every blemish and the distasteful memories attached.

I learned of all your insecurities and I learned exactly what to say to make you feel (a tad bit if not too) secure. I tried to provide effective consolation and consumable glorification while exaggerated flattery found its way out of our equation.

You are not meant to be a caricature of an ‘ideal’ standard. You spend all day practising oscillating hips and a slightly arched back but it is at the end of the day, when you let your body loose, uncontrolled, that you find comfort. When you spend all day afraid that the heat might ruin your contour, ensuring you don’t rub your eyes because you don’t wanna smudge your kohl, it is coming home to a make-up remover and sleeping with a barren face that you anticipate. You are not defined by the stretch marks on your thighs or the fat on your belly that you loathe on several occasions when your mind is invaded by the question, “Why don’t I look like that?” You’re not supposed to look like that. You’re not supposed to look like anything. But you.

Somewhere between flattery and consolation, telling you everything I wish someone would tell me, a beautiful friendship evolved.


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