As a little girl, I held
books that took up my whole lap,
reading stories of knights
and damsels in distress,
full of evil and love, and
every other piece of magic a kid
can gobble up like drops of
honey and sugar.
I absorbed each tale like a sponge:
Rapunzel, with hair long and golden,
tossing it down the length of her
tower for the man waiting below;
Sleeping Beauty, asleep with love on
her lips for a hundred years until
someone was willing to take it;
Cinderella, running at the stroke of
midnight, for fear of her beauty
fading, only to be found by the size of
her dainty foot.
Now I stare out the window of
a second-story bedroom, barefoot,
hair surrounding my face like a red halo,
wondering if there is
a happy ending for me,
or if I'm destined
to read lies and stare out windows,
wishing everyday for
my prince to come and
sweep me off my feet,
instead of some girl in
a tower or one fast asleep.