Trapped in a fatal instinct.
I carry an ideal of a prince,
When I find someone of those qualities
I reach out.
I reach out in desperation for that kindness.
But my hand lowers as I take in the view,
between the Prince and I,
a field.
A field of broken glass
and the unruly truth
that I will bleed out
before ever reaching him.
I venture a few anchored steps forward,
feeling the glass cut into my skin
but again, I will bleed out.
So I stay behind the field of glass,
hand pressed against a window.
I remain in my dark corner,
shrouded in monsters,
because monsters make sense.
The prince, he is a silly ideal,
But the Monsters aren't.
The monsters let me breath easy
and though coated in violence
I feel safe.
It's hard to explain why,
but I suppose it's rather simple,

The kind ideal of that Prince is silly and terrifying,
but the monsters aren't,
because the monsters make sense.