Once upon a time,
in a story they told,
lived a girl with a heart
too heavy for gold.
They promised her rainbows
would color her skies,
that storms always faded,
that pain was disguised.
But her rainbows came broken,
with colors misplaced—
a red that felt missing,
a blue that erased.
She waited for sunshine
to finish the view,
but some things stay incomplete,
no matter what you do.
They gave her the tale
of wings made from pain,
said, “You’ll be a butterfly,
just wait through the rain.”
So she sat in the silence,
she held her breath tight,
but growing felt less like hope
and more like a fight.
And when she emerged,
she didn’t feel free—
just different, and quieter
than she used to be.
They spoke of the unicorn,
gentle and rare,
a sign there was magic
still left somewhere.
So she searched in the forests,
in dreams, in the dark—
but found only echoes
and a flickering spark.
And slowly she noticed,
with each passing day,
the stories she trusted
were slipping away.
No castle came calling,
no ending turned bright,
no voice softly promised
that she’d be alright.
But still she kept walking,
though unsure of the end,
with cracks in her armor
she didn’t pretend.
Because maybe some stories
don’t fix what they start—
they just teach you to carry
a heavier heart.
And maybe that’s living,
not magic, not art—
just a girl growing up
in the dark.