He said “not like other girls” like it was a compliment

I Don’t Want to Be Your Favorite If You Hate the Rest.

Poem 11: He said “not like other girls” like it was a compliment

from the series “The Crown Was Never Yours” – The Misogyny You Dressed in Compliments

As if there’s honor
in being an exception to your prejudice,

as if being elevated means anything
when it’s only because you’ve decided
to look down on the rest,

as if what made me desirable
was how well I erased
the parts of myself
you find inconvenient in other women.

What you meant was:
you don’t interrupt me when I’m wrong,
you laugh small,
cry privately,
don’t take up space with opinions.

You nod even when you disagree.
You fold instead of break.
You’re easier to love
because you don’t expect to be loved well.

You turned sisterhood into scarcity,
held up femininity like a contest
where the winner is the one
who disappears first.

You told me I was better
because I didn’t burn as loudly—
but forgot
that I’m still fire,
just quiet enough
to reach your bones.

And for a moment,
I wore it like a crown—
that poisoned praise—
thinking I had survived girlhood
by transcending it,
when really
I had just betrayed it.

What you never saw
is that I am like other girls—
resilient,
radiant,
relentless,

tired of being pitted against softness
like it’s something to grow out of.

So don’t flatter me with comparisons
you use to silence us.
Don’t call me rare
when what you mean is compliant.

Don’t make me your favorite
just because I didn’t tell you no fast enough.

I am not your trophy
for tolerating womanhood
in a smaller dose.

I am not better.
I am done.

---

This poem is a rejection.
Of the compliments that came wrapped in comparison.
Of the illusion that being “chosen” means being respected.
Of the violence hidden inside flattery.

I was taught early on that being unlike other girls was something to be proud of—
as if womanhood was a ladder,
and being palatable to men put you one step higher.

This poem is about how I betrayed other girls just to feel safe.
How I let myself be praised for staying quiet.
For being “cool.”
For being tolerable.
For being small.

It took me too long to realize that wasn’t survival.
That was silence.
That was starvation.

I wrote this to reclaim my belonging.
To say: I am like other girls.
And that is the highest compliment I could ever give myself.

I am not flattered.
I am furious.
And I am no longer afraid to say it out loud.

---

© 2025 Solena Vyhra. All rights reserved.
This work is part of the poetry collection The Crown Was Never Yours.
No part of this poem, including text or visual design, may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
For inquiries, permissions, or collaborations, please contact: solenavyhra@gmail.com

Illustration and layout by Solena Vyhra.
Typography: Special Elite (poem titles), Signature (author tag).
Published on Substack via Where Silence Becomes Ritual.