We are taught when we’re young
To always say thank you to a compliment.
But we never were taught
What is a compliment and what’s not.

I should have known not to say
“Thank you”
To the boy at the end of the hall,
Who screamed “nice ass”
As I walked past in my yoga pants.

I should have known not to say
“Thank you”
When a man much older than me
Said I was “beautiful for my age.”

I should have known not to say
“Thank you”
When I was sixteen, receiving a text saying
“I would totally f*** you.”

I should have known not to say
“Thank you”
when boys would tell me that I should
wear my dress more often.
Or that it would look better on their floor.

I should have known,
But I had to learn for myself.

I now wear a sweater down to my knees,
As I walk down the hall,
Dreading the compliments.

I walk to my car,
With my keys pointed outwards.
Because no one ever told us
That the compliments would harm us.

No one ever told us
That the compliments would stick their hands
Up our skirts and dresses.
Or that they would learn things about us,
And put them against us.

No one ever told us
That the compliments would get us drunk,
Leaving us to wake up
Naked and alone,
With no recollection of the night before.

We should have known,
But we didn’t.
And now here we sit,
With compliment remains
Hanging from our limbs.